Good Little Soldier
by The TARDIS Ate My Pie
Summary: That was always rule one: don't tell anyone what John does to him. Don't tell anyone or he'll kill Sammy. But what happens when Dean can't take it anymore? Abused!Dean, terrible John parenting, and a roller coaster of teenchester/weechester feels. Rated for child abuse, graphic images, and implied sexual abuse.
1. Part One: Waking Up Thursday

Good Little Soldier- Chapter One- Waking Up Thursday

 **Disclaimer: How does that old saying go? I don't own Supernatural, blah, blah, blah… (Yes Crowley reference)**

 **So I went to the eye doctor and got my pupils dilated and I LOOK LIKE A DEMON THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER so I was feeling more evil than usual and was thinking about the whole "John Winchester is an abusive alcoholic father" thing and this happened. PLEASE review I love feedback and I'm horrible at writing abuse scenes so any advice is appreciated.**

 **Child abuse, implied language (I stick to the show's rules on that stuff), extra depressing Wee!chester and Teen!chester moments. You've been warned.**

 _Shouting. Him, mostly. How no one hears through the thin motel walls, I have no idea. Maybe someone does._

Beep. Beep.

 _Someone brings up tomorrow's date. Probably me, probably trying to get him to stop._

Beep. Beep. Beep.

 _Then he grabs Sam. Then the bastard starts hitting my brother._

Beep.

 _So what am I supposed to do?_ Let _him? Sam's not_ me _._

Beep. Beep.

 _I pull myself across the floor, clumsy fingers finding the phone on the bedside table. Carefully, so carefully, so I don't wake him up._

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

 _I call someone. Bobby. 911. I don't know. Anyone who can get to the motel before he wakes up._

Beep.

 _Where the hell is all that beeping coming from?_

Opening my eyes feels like way too much effort. Breathing feels like too much effort, but I guess I have to keep doing that. For Sam. That's my only motivation these days. If it weren't my nine-year-old bookworm of a brother, I would've been gone a long time ago.

I still don't know where I am, but it smells like hospital. Like antiseptic and anxious waiting. Vaguely I realize that if I am in a hospital then he knows I called someone, but I'm too tired to care. He can't do anything until we leave, anyway. Which means we won't be leaving until after November 3rd. If regular breathing wasn't so hard, I'd sigh with relief. Me and Sammy, we're safe for now.

Of course, Sammy should've always been safe.

 _He slams me against the wall, and I bite back a scream when my back hits the hard surface. "See that?" he says, voice turned copper with alcohol, pointing behind him at my brother's unconscious form. "Couldn't save him this time, could you? Can't even protect yourself, much less your brother. Useless."_

I force my eyes open, staring at the bright fluorescents above me and shoving the memory down with the thousands of others just like it. I glance over at the heart monitor, watching the green peaks and valleys and reminding myself that yes, I'm still alive. Eventually the beeping starts getting to me. In movies, it isn't so beeping annoying. I don't know how long it is before the door opens, but I can tell who it is before I can see him. No one else can open a door that quietly.

I don't realize just how bad everything hurts until Sammy tackles me.

"OW," I shout, fiery pain shooting through my torso. Sam quickly jumps off me, standing by the bed with the same scared-puppy look he gets on the rare occasion _he_ yells at Sam and not me.

Crap. I've been awake for five minutes, and I've already screwed something up.

"Hey," I say, pushing myself into a sitting position and ignoring the burn that courses through my wrists and shoulders and ribs and _everywhere._ "Sorry. I… sorry."

"For what?" he asks, crawling up next to me and nudging his head into my shoulder.

 _For not coming back in time. For letting him give you that black eye. For being too scared to protect you. For letting that monster walk all over me, again and again._ "For last night," I say finally, wondering if that really sums up everything. _For last night and the night when you were seven and every other time I've ever let him hurt you._

"Dean," Sam says, "You were in here last night."

"I was?"

"Uh-huh. And the night before that."

"So it's Thursday," I say, smiling at the wall opposite us.

"Yup."

Thursday is now officially my favorite day of the week. If Wednesday is over, then November 3rd is over and we're even safer than I thought. Because _he_ won't be stumbling through the motel room door sometime after midnight and-

" _It was all your fault. She told you he was your responsibility, didn't she? It should've been you, you worthless little-"_

"Dean?" Sam says, shaking my shoulder. I turn and focus on him, automatically looking over his injuries even though it's already been done. "How come you slept so long?" he asks.

I shrug. "I was tired, I guess. Really tired."

Sam nods and wraps his arm around my chest. "Once I was so tired I slept a whole day," he says.

"I remember that." I smile, which seems weird after… _that._ Monday. "I tried everything. You wouldn't wake up."

The door opens again, and I feel myself tense up. It's a reflex, and someday someone is going to notice it and start asking questions, but I can't help it.

"Bobby!" Sam shouts, running to hug him. I must've called him at some point that night (which wasn't last night, apparently), because _he_ wouldn't have ever asked someone for help.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, ruffling his hair and walking over to me. "How's you ankle, kid?"

"My…" _He pushes me to the side, and I fall down hard, my ankle twisting painfully under me. Dizzy, I try to stand back up and stop him, but it hurts too much._ "Oh. Right. Better than it was."

"That's good. Your dad told me what happened."

"He _did?"_ What the hell?

"Yeah. Demon found your motel. Must've been horrible."

Oh. Of course. He lies professionally. "Um…. Uh-huh." I stare out the window, hands shaking, and try to force down the words on the tip of my tongue. I remember what happened last time, when the school nurse asked the day before we were leaving, when _he_ 'd gotten even worse and I wanted, _needed_ someone to know. There was hell to pay when I got home and saw him, a phone in one hand and an empty bottle in the other.

"One thing I don't get," Bobby starts, pulling me out of my thoughts. "How did John leave his phone at the motel? He takes it everywhere."

"The one time I forget it," I hear _him_ say, stalking through the door with a worried look on his face. It's a mask, that look, and as soon as he gets Bobby to leave it's coming off. I can't remember ever being so grateful for security cameras. "Dean. You're doing okay."

It's not a question, or sympathy. It's an order. "Yes, sir," I reply, looking down at Sam. He's smiling up at his Dad, completely oblivious to what happened Monday. I lean my head against the wall and stare at the ceiling as _he_ makes up some story about leaving his phone and demons attacking us and _I couldn't reach them in time_ and other worried-parent crap that makes me want to puke. Eventually Bobby leaves, giving Sam a quick hug, and it's just us and _him._

Family reunion. Awesome.

 _He_ walks over and puts one hand on the wall above my bed, leaning in close so no one outside hears it. "What was that?" he asks, voice lower and darker than usual. "There are rules, Dean. And I've made it very clear that the first one is _don't tell anyone."_

"I know, sir," I say, miraculously managing to keep my voice even. The beeping on my heart monitor picks up the pace. "I didn't tell them about… what else was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," he says, his words building in a dangerous crescendo. "For one thing, you could've stayed away from the damn _phone!"_

His free hand slams into the bed, a little too close for comfort, and I carefully inch away, looking pointedly up at the camera in the corner. Sammy takes a step back, wrapping his arms around himself with the scared-puppy look in his eyes. It's horrible, seeing Sam scared. "Now," he whispers, leaning even closer. "Sammy doesn't remember what happened, so I told him the doctors that someone broke in Tuesday night. They were wearing a mask, and I was out. If they ask about anything from other than last night, you don't know what they're talking about. If another hunter asks, tell them what I told Bobby."

"Yes, sir."

"And Dean."

I push myself farther away, hoping he can't see how bad my hands are shaking. Sam looks like he's about to pass out. "I will. If you do," he hisses, and I stare up at him. How he still remembers that, from three years ago, I have no idea. And I had just convinced myself it was empty, like all the others.

I'm about to say something when a nurse comes in. "Oh," she says as my father hurriedly straightens up and smiles at her. "You're all here. Dean, if you're feeling better, you're all set to leave."

 _Wait. What? No. Dear god no. I just woke up. I can't even get five damn minutes?_

"Um…"

"He's feeling great. Aren't you _Dean."_

It's not a question. "Yeah," I say, forcing a smile. "I feel a lot better."

"That's wonderful," the nurse says. "You're going to need crutches for a few weeks, but otherwise you're all fixed."

 _He's just going to break me again,_ I want to say, but instead I just nod.

"Great. Take it easy until your ribs heal, too."

"Thanks," John barks, obviously wanting her to leave. They lock eyes for a few seconds, and she turns back to the door."

"Oh, and Dean?" she says. _Damn. This girl has no idea how to leave._ "We're looking for him. The man who did this to you and your brother. And if you remember anything-"

"He was wearing a mask," I interrupt, glancing up at _him._

"That's what your father said. I'll leave you to it."

 _God, please don't,_ I think desperately, hoping I have ESP, but she closes the door behind her.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 _I will, if you do._

The thought makes me hold onto Sam's shoulder that much tighter as we drive through the second state of tonight. It's eerily silent; no thinly veiled insults or threats, no lectures about trust and following rules _._ The calm before a storm. And it's going to be one hell of a storm. I'm starving, and I can tell Sam is, too, but _he's_ not showing any signs of stopping. I lean my head against the window, staring at the trees on the side of the highway until they blur together and I have to blink. But once my eyes are closed, I'm too tired to open them again; the tiny burst of claustrophobia and adrenaline that got me to the car is gone. Instead, I let Sam's steady breathing and the white noise of the car wrap around me and I fall half-asleep.

 _I will. If you do._

Five words. Five words, and the bastard can get me to do whatever he wants. Five words and I turn into a goddamn _puppet._ Because the only thing keeping me sane, the _only thing_ that I let myself trust, is the nine-year-old kid dozing off on my shoulder.

" _Sam, does Dad ever-"_

 _Before I can finish my sentence, he's stormed into the room and grabbed my shirt. "Can I talk to you, Dean?" he spits, half-dragging me outside. "What's rule one?" he asks, shoving me against the wall outside the hotel room door. I look around for security cameras; there aren't any. Crappy cheap hotels._

" _Don't tell, sir," I say, looking down at my feet._

" _So what were you about to ask Sam?"_

" _Wait, so you don't…"_

 _He slams me against the wall again, so hard black spots swirl in front of his glare. "No, Dean, I don't, because he's not a worthless retard."_

" _But I-"_

" _Dean, I swear to god, I'm going to kill the six-year-old brat behind that door if you tell anyone. I swear. I will, if you do. Do you understand?"_

 _I freeze, too scared to answer._

" _I said,_ do you understand _?"_

" _Y-yes si-sir."_

" _Good. Now get inside and make something up to finish that question of yours."_

" _Yes, sir."_

I pull my eyelids open so fast it hurts. It's nighttime now, and raining. _He_ pulls the Impala into a motel parking lot and orders us to stay in the car. Sammy wakes up when he slams the door, his sleep-filled eyes gazing lazily into mine. "Are we there yet?" he asks, pushing himself farther into my chest. It hurts like hell, but I ignore it.

"Yeah," I say. His stomach growls too loudly to ignore; hopefully _he_ gets hungry enough to get dinner soon. "Hey. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

 _For never standing up for you, or myself. For not breaking through that door fast enough on Monday. For not being brave enough or strong enough to protect you from that monster._ "For not getting Dad to stop for food. You must be starving."

"Yeah. Maybe he'll get us pizza. Daddy," the kid says innocently as _he_ gets back in the car. "Can we have pizza?"

"Sure, Sammy. Now, when we get to our room…"

"You and Dean go in first, and make sure it's safe."

"Good."

If I wasn't on crutches, he'd drag me in. that's what always happens. We're not making sure the room is safe, I'm making sure that Sam's safe.

"After everything I do for you…" he starts, pushing me back against the door as soon as it closes. I land on my ankle and swallow a scream as he shoves me further into the wood. "You know where'd you be if I'd done what I should've and left you on a random street somewhere?"

 _Happier,_ I think. But I don't say it out loud. God, I'll _never_ say it out loud.

"Dead. But no, I keep you, because I don't know why. It used to be to protect your brother, but now you can't even do _that."_ He pushes me into the room, and I fall when my weight lands on my ankle. I land on one of my crutches, fresh pain stabbing my sore ribs. I start to get up, but my ankle gives out again and all I can do is lay there and I feel so _weak_ and _pathetic_ and-

" _Worthless,"_ he says, grabbing my shirt and yanking me to my feet. "SAM!" he calls, loud enough to be heard through the door. "IT'S SAFE. BRING IN THE STUFF." He lets go, and I fall back on the nearest bed, staring at the dark ceiling and wishing he _had_ left me on a random street somewhere. I know I haven't heard the end of this; my broken ankle's not going to stop him when he zigzags in a one a.m.

"I'm going out," he barks, tossing me the room key and the TV remote. "Someone up the road spontaneously combusted. Don't wait up. And Dean…"

 _I will, if you do._

"Yes, sir?"

"Take care of your pain-in-the-ass little brother."

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 **What kind of sadistic, messed-up person writes about child abuse for** _ **fun?**_ **You know who does that? Crazy people!**

 **Anyway, hope you're liking this. Should there be more Sam abuse? I don't know. And if anyone has any suggestions, I'm listening. Thanks for reading, next chapter posted soon, etc.**

 **PS: for anyone reading** **This Isn't Home,** **I have a really great chapter… idea. That I can't find words for. I will post before Labor Day. Probably.**


	2. Part One: Lost Prayers

Good Little Soldier- Chapter Two- Lost Prayers

 **Disclaimer: there was this thing in my country known as the Civil War, and now it's illegal for me to buy and own Sam and Dean Winchester. So I don't.**

 **This chapter is probably going to be really short, but I hope you enjoy it! Please review, as always. If you hate it, awesome. If you love it, more awesome. If you left your soul in the cage with Lucifer and Michael and are incapable of feeling any emotion towards it, don't scratch the wall. Like ever.**

 **%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%**

Everything _hurts._

Trying not to scream, I pull myself off the floor and limp towards the bathroom, bracing myself against the wall. I don't turn the lights on; I don't want to see my reflection. Don't want to see what the son of a bitch did to me. Hands shaking, I turn on the water as loudly as it'll go, which still isn't loud enough, and stumble to the nearest wall.

If my back weren't more painful scars than skin, I'd slide down the wall like they do in movies. Instead, I let the weight of Sam and the _family business_ and November 3rd and everything my father's ever said and done to me push me to the floor. Five minutes, and _he's_ going to start banging on the door. A few weeks ago, I fell asleep and he kicked to door down.

My mind wanders back to the hospital. _We're looking for him. The man who did this to you…_ They're pretty bad at looking; he was standing right there the whole time. I start to laugh at that, but it changes into a sob somewhere and comes out with a few tears. _Pathetic._ I can't- don't- want to imagine what would happen if _he_ came in and saw me crying. If it was Sam, breaking down in a motel bathroom at two in the morning, he'd sit down next to him and give the kid a hug.

Which is fine. Sammy's different than me. He didn't even find out about the fire, about Dad's _job,_ until last year. I'm not going to blame him for it. But who's there when _I'm_ the one crying my eyes out at almost 3 a.m.?

"Mom?" I whisper, wincing at how scared and _weak_ my voice sounds. "You up there?"

My eyes wander up to the ceiling, like she's going to be there. Which she never will be.

"In case you haven't noticed, your husband's an asshole. More so than usual. And… he hurt Sammy, Mom. I'm sorry, I couldn't stop him. And I can't tell anyone, because if I do he's gonna… the hell am I supposed to do? Mom, he's getting worse. Monday he… it's a whole new level of _bad_ down here. And I don't know how much longer I can take it. I-"

"What the hell's taking you so long?" _he_ hisses through the door.

"Nothing," I say quickly, scrambling to turn off the water. "Hey Mom?" I add under my breath. "Those angels that are supposed to be stalking me? Where are they? Cause I could really use one right now."

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 **And now I should probably mention that there will be no Castiel in this story. I'm sorry this is so short. The next chapter will be longer than a Harry Potter book, I promise** **J**

 **Thanks to everyone who's following/ favoriting this! If you could review, too, that would be greatly appreciated. Hope this didn't hit your feels too hard.**

 **~sparkle**


	3. Part One: Monsters in the Dark

_Dean. Grow up," Dad says, his tone unapologetically furious._

 _I stare ahead, six-year-old hands barely big enough to_ hold _a gun, much less kill something with one. Not that I never had. But this was different. This wasn't a werewolf, or shooing away ghosts with a salt gun while Dad and Sammy dug up a grave; this was an actual person. My hands start shaking, and I look back up at Dad:_ I can't do this.

 _"Damnit Dean, I gave you an order. You're going to_ follow _that order, or I'm sure your mother would be happy to take you."_

 _"But mom's-oh." My hands shake harder, and the gun drops to the unforgiving cement floor._

 _"So you pull the trigger, and you don't ask questions."_

 _"But-"_

 _In record time- too fast for someone this drunk- he's crossed the room and has an iron grip on my shirt, pulling me off the ground. "What have I said about asking questions?" he slurs, shaking me a little too hard._

 _"Yes, sir," I mumble._

 _"WHAT HAVE I SAID?"_

 _"Don't ask questions."_

 _He smiles sarcastically as he drops me and points to the gun. "Good. Now pick that up."_

 _I take a deep breath and turn back to the man- not ghost, or werewolf, or anything I'm okay with killing- tied to the chair, forcing my hands to steady._ At least he's still unconscious _, I think, like that justifies anything._ It's not like he's a good man. _My stomach churns as I aim at him, closing my eyes as much as I can, glancing at Dad's disapproving glare. I take another breath, watching the chair as I shove everything down except the part that follow's orders._

 _That's the only part of me anyone cares about._

 _After a few more seconds, I realize it'll be better for everyone to get it over with. I close my eyes and don't let myself think about the people who knew the man. Don't let myself think about the fact that he's not much different than my father…_

 _"Dean?"_

 _It's not Dad. Dad's standing behind me, not in front of me, and he'd never talk to me with that voice. Cautiously, I open my eyes and look across the room, and the world twists and distorts around the red stain on the person's shirt. I try to scream as everything goes spiraling back in time, back to Kansas and the fire, but nothing comes out. Dad pulls me back and throws me against the wall, which slowly morphs into a person behind me._

 _The man grabs my arms and starts pulling me backwards. "DAD!" I scream, but he just stands and smiles._

 _The person I shot starts walking towards me. The blood is covering them now, head to toe, like a twisted Halloween costume. "I'm sorry," I start to say, but all that comes out is a small whimper._

Pathetic.

 _"It's all your fault, you know," the figure says. They grab my hand, covering my palm in blood. "You killed me, Dean."_

 _"N-no I didn-"_

 _The man behind me starts puling me back, away from the figure and Dad. Cold cement under my feet gives way to creaking floorboards as I'm dragged through another hunter's house. "I'M SORRY!" I finally manage to shout, but no one hears me._

 _I look down at my hand again, at the thick coat of red, and suddenly there's another hand on top, small and bright._

 _"Dean," Sammy says, looking earnestly up at me. "Wake up."_

"Dean. Wake up."

My eyelids fly open, the scenes in my head changing abruptly to the blurry outlines of motel room furniture. Automatically my hand slips under my pillow, groping for the gun Dad makes me keep there. As soon as I find it, though, I flinch and yank my hand away as though it was on fire. _They grab my hand, covering my palm in blood._ I turn to Sam, his eyes glowing in the dimness, and try to focus on him so hard everything else goes away.

"I'm scared," he says, tugging harder on my hand.

"Of what?" Cautiously, I glance over at the other bed in the room, wondering what he'd say if he were awake. What I'm doing wrong. It's always something with him. Hell, the way I _breathe_ is probably a catastrophe to him.

"Aren't there monsters in this town?" Sam says.

I sigh and turn my gaze back to him, pushing a sleepy strand of hair out of his face. "Kid, there's monsters in every town. The only difference is this one's decided to start killing people." _Not the best thing to say to the scared kid, idiot._

"Will it kill me?" His voice is trembling, and for a moment I remember that he's only nine; too young to know about the things in the dark. _You were only five,_ I think, my eyes wandering back to _his_ side of the room. _Weren't you too young?_

"I was different," I whisper to myself. Sighing, I let go of Sam and reach down to the duffel bag under the bed, hauling it up beside me.

"You see this?" I ask, holding up a can of salt barely visible in the dark. "And this?" I say again, taking out the machete _he_ gave me as a twelfth birthday present. Two months late. "And the giant over there?" I jerk my thumb towards the other bed. "There's not a monster in this world, human or otherwise, that is going to get their hands on my little brother. If anything tries to get you, I'll kick its ass. You're safe, Sammy. Long as I'm around, you're safe."

He smiles and lays back down, hand unconsciously stretching towards my side of the bed. "Dean?" he drowses.

"Hmm-hmm?"

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"You put your hand under your pillow when you woke up," he says, like it's an obvious fact. "You always do that when you have nightmares."

"Yeah, Sammy. I had a bad dream." _And that's all it was,_ I remind myself, looking back at Dad. _Even if it's all happened before._

"What was it about?" Sam says through a yawn. He's already half-asleep. God, what I'd give to be able to sleep like that. Through the entire night, marred only by the occasional nightmare and not by gruff hands dragging me out of bed and towards the bathroom. Even his dreams are tame compared to mine.

"The dream? Mom," I say, hoping the finality in my voice is enough to keep him from asking any more. _The world twists and distorts around the red stain on the person's shirt-_

"I have dreams about her, too," he says, voice teetering on the edge of sleep.

"Yeah. Hey Sammy…" But he's already asleep.

When I was little, Mom used to go downstairs and listen to the radio after she'd put me to bed. There's not much I remember, but sometimes I'd hear her singing along as she did the dishes or something, voice echoing up the stairs, a little off-key and a little raspy, but still the best lullaby anyone's ever gotten.

I run my fingers through Sam's hair and start humming under my breath, hardly daring to do anything that could remind Dad of Mom. When I hear a small snore across the room, I start whispering the lyrics, barely loud enough for more than the occasional note to float on top of them.

" _Carry on my wayward son…"_ Sammy shifts his position, inching closer to me. I push the duffel over the side of the bed and wrap my arm around his shoulders.

" _There'll be peace when you are done…"_ For a second, I swear I hear someone else's off-key, distant singing over the top of mine. But Mom's… God knows where. Or maybe he doesn't, because wouldn't hunters have seen angels or something by now if they existed?

 _"Lay your weary head to rest…"_ And if angels are really watching over me, then why is my life so hellish?

 _"Don't you cry no more."_ A few tears find their way down my face because my life was screwed from the second Dad looked at the bedroom ceiling nine years ago. From the moment he shoved Sam into my arms for the rest of my life, from the twenty-five minutes it took for our house to burn down. _Where were the angels then? Where have those_ goddamn _halos been my entire life?_

I close my eyes, pretending to be asleep until I've convinced myself I am. I lay there with my eyes closed until Dad comes and yanks me out of bed early the next morning.

"Come on. Found the werewolf," he barks, throwing my jacket at me.

"But there's school," I mumble, barely loud enough to hear over the whine of the heater.

"When you can do more than fail at school, you can go."

 _I'm pretty sure all the days I've missed is why I'm failing,_ I think, pulling my shoes out from under the bed.

"Wake Sammy up," Dad says gruffly. Sighing, I shake Sam's shoulder until his eyes crack open, glancing up at me with a small smile.

"Where you goin'?" he asks in a sleep-rimmed voice.

"Werewolf," barks Dad, slinging a bag over his shoulder and grabbing the notebook off the table.

God, that notebook. He loves that notebook more that he loves me. Then again, that's not saying much. When I was nine I drew a picture of Mom on the back of one of the pages. And when he found out… Jesus, when he found out…

I lean in close to Sammy and grin. "We're gonna go kill a monster." I kiss the top of his head and start out the door behind Dad. "Come straight home after school. Keep the door locked."

"I'll be fine. I'm not a baby."

"Sorry kid, but you're kind of stuck with the baby brother title. See you later."

"See you," he mumbles, shoving his face back into the pillow.

That kid doesn't deserve John Winchester as a father. And he sure as hell doesn't deserve to be dragged across the country chasing the nonexistent _thing_ that killed Mom. Why can't we both live in a normal house, with normal parents and a life that looks like it came out of a sitcom? Who decided I had to… there's six _billion_ people on this damn planet without our life; why aren't we out there with them?

And my point still stands- where's the God Squad when you need 'em?

" _Dean,"_ comes the voice from the car. I wave goodbye to Sam and yank open the back door, rubbing my eyes. He doesn't let me sit in the front seat- _how is the car different from anything else you've ruined? This is the_ Impala, _kid. I'm not letting you mess it up._ He doesn't say a word as we drive to the nearest diner. I stare out the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass, and think about Mom's favorite song.

 _Masquerading as a man with a reason, my charade is the event of the season…_

Dad practically shoves me into the corner booth, opening his notebook and flipping to the nearest blank page. I've seen him write every entry in that book- I know it almost as well as he does. He glances up and glares at me, clipping the article from three days ago to the page.

Behind his glasses, the waiter's eyes are solidly, perfectly blue. Like someone colored them in with a marker. Or dropped pupils into new cans of paint. It's weird.

"Shouldn't you be in school…?" Dad asks the sixteen-ish-year-old, looking up at his nametag "…Jimmy?"

Jimmy stares at him, solid blue eyes fixed directly on Dad's. I can't remember the last time someone looked at him like that. "With all due respect, sir," he says finally, glancing over at me. "Shouldn't your _son_ be in school?"

"We're on our way out of town. Family emergency."

"My sister couldn't come into work today. Family _business_ emergency. Can I get you some coffee?"

Jimmy is my new favorite person.

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"FINE," Dad sighs, shoving five dollars at me.

"What?"

"You've been looking at me like that for ten minutes. Go get us some pie. And don't say I never did anything for you. Shouldn't even be buying you breakfast."

He's going to eat most of it. I don't care. Pie is like… _heaven_ but you don't have to die. If I were stranded in a desert and started hallucinating, I'd see pie where everyone else saw water. It's kind of a problem. If my family cared enough to celebrate Thanksgiving instead of just watching the _Charlie Brown_ special and eating Chinese takeout, I swear to god I would eat the entire pumpkin pie.

Jimmy gesture for me to lean in closer, looking deliberately at Dad in the corner. "Aren't you going to tell someone?" he asks, pushing his glasses further up his face.

"Tell someone what?"

"What your dad's been doing to you."

 _Holy… how does he know?_

"That's the way I looked at my dad," he explains. "And the man made my life a living hell."

"That makes two of us," I say before I can stop myself. I whirl around to look at the corner booth. He heard me; I'm sure of it.

"But then I told my cousin," Jimmy continues, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me back around. "And now I'm here, and Dad's in jail. I'm just saying. No one should have to be that scared of their own parents."

"Yeah, well…" I pick up the plastic bag on the counter and turn to leave. "You didn't have a little brother to protect."

He smiles sadly, paint-can eyes brightening with tears as they wander over to the door. "Carolyn Novak," he whispers, and walks back towards the kitchen.

I keep my distance from Dad as we leave, still convinced he heard me. There's a picture on one of the wide windowsills around the door. It's a little girl by a Christmas tree, practically glowing as she holds up a stocking. The flowers surrounding the frame are the same shade of blue as her eyes.

Her eyes are solidly, perfectly blue, like someone colored them in with a marker. Or dropped pupils into new cans of paint.

"Holy _crap_ ," I whisper, and sprint out the door behind Dad.

That settles it. I can't tell anyone about Dad, or Sam's going to end up as dead as Carolyn Novak.

 **%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%**

It's the kind of forest that swallows you whole after you've stepped inside.

The morning fog traps us in a bubble as we carefully step off the path and start in the direction of the werewolves. _Plural,_ as he forgot to mention until a few minutes ago. _At least three._ I shudder and grip the knife in my hand that much tighter, thinking about Sammy. Someday Dad's going to drag him along, too, and it's going to get him killed.

"Breathe any louder and they'll hear you back in Kansas," he hisses. "Jesus, kid. First time on a hunt?"

 _Walk any louder and they'll hear you in Alaska,_ I mouth, trying desperately to quiet my racing heart. I'm not going to get my ass kicked by a werewolf just to come home and get my ass kicked by Dad. Though it'll probably happen regardless.

He stops at the edge of a clearing, pinning me against a tree as a shadow sprints by us on the other side of the fog. "I swear to god, Dean," Dad whispers, "If you don't shut up I'm going to let those wolves tear you to shreds. Or maybe they'll turn you." He pulls away and gestures for me to follow him, around the edge of the clearing. "Maybe then you'll be useful to someone."

I watch my feet, debating sprinting the opposite direction, just running until I've left town or the werewolves- _plural-_ find me. _And leave Sammy alone with him?_ I chastise myself, flinching as another shadow races past us.

Maybe Dad's right- maybe the nine-year-old is my weak spot. Because I'm thinking about him when I feel two hands on my shoulder blades, firm as folded angels' wings, and fall into the middle of the clearing. I look back to see who pushed me, but no one's there. Not even Dad. Shaking, I shift my grip on the knife and pray that the pack hasn't noticed me yet.

I'm about to run back to the trees when they jump on me.

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 ***Cough* Ummm…..**

 **Sorry for the cliffhanger. And the feels. And the COMWS reference. And Jimmy's sister. And the nightmare. And the general emotional roller coaster of this chapter.**

 **Thanks for letting me ruin your day. Please review.**

 **~sparkle**


	4. Part One: Tattletale

Good Little Soldier- Chapter Four- Tattletale

 **Disclaimer: all characters and such belong to the amazing creators of the brilliant show that is Supernatural. And it is an honor to borrow them without permission and ruin their fictional lives. Sorry, Squirrel.**

 **So… I had the chapter all planned out and I was _going_ to write it last weekend, I swears, but then I GOT A TV SHOW! Our local channel is letting me host the Professional Fangirl on their channel (squeeeeeeee) so I had to film the first episode, and I kind of forgot about Dean and the werewolves. But here I am, only 6 days late, and it's got a good ending this time!**

 **Btw, Dean's ankle's all better. It's like 9 or 10 weeks after chapter 2.**

 **Thanks for all the faves!**

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I fall face-first onto the forest floor, knife wrenching itself out of my hand and skidding just out of reach. This isn't really happening, is it? Getting attacked by three werewolves? Something grabs at my jacket, and I glance over my shoulder into a pair of yellow eyes. _Werewolf,_ I remind myself as my mind starts reeling back to Kansas and the fire. Snapping myself back to the present, I start to crawl towards the knife. I'm halfway across when one of them grabs me, claws tearing into my shoulder right above the rips in my jacket. Pain detonates in my shoulder as claws dig through my skin, past the nine years of scars. Screaming, I yank myself free and sprint towards the knife.

And I make it almost three feet, too. New world record.

Adrenaline pours into my veins as they shove me to the ground again, all three piling on top of me like hyenas. Another set of claws rake through my shirt, and my stomach explodes. My foot collides with something and the weight on my gets a little lighter. Dimly noticing that it hurts like _hell,_ I throw my shoulder back and grope around until my fingers find the knife. Somehow, even with my vision blurry from pain, the silver blade finds its way into the nearest werewolf. I roll away as it falls to the ground, landing with a gunshot-loud thud. The second one falls down next to her, and I get that it really _was_ a gunshot.

Still too high on adrenaline to notice how much everything hurts, I jump to my feet and kill the last one. As it falls next to the others, I can't help wondering if that's how our family's going- one day some ghost or wendigo or something offing all three of us in an abandoned forest somewhere. _Not Sam,_ I think.

Dad emerges from the trees like a shadow, gun still raised. I look around for another werewolf, but I'm the only one in the clearing.

 _I swear to god, Dean, one of these days I'm gonna shoot you and we'll both be better off._

Flinching, I take a few steps back, heels almost hitting the dead wolves. "Something pushed me," I explain, hoping it's a good enough excuse for screwing up the hunt.

"I pushed you," Dad says apathetically. "Needed to draw them out."

" _What?"_

"You heard me. Come on; we're leaving at noon. Found another job in Washington while you were flirting with that waiter at the diner."

The last of the adrenaline rush wears off, replaced by burning in my shoulder and stomach. Feeling even _more_ pathetic than usual, I start after Dad. _Maybe this time you won't use your own son as bait,_ I think venomously.

Dad turns around, eyes calm as thunderclouds, and takes a step towards me. "What… did… you… say?" he asks, voice menacingly low, like movie villains right before they start taking over cities and going on murder sprees.

 _Did I say that out loud?_ The adrenaline decides it needed an encore and comes flooding back. "Nothing, sir," I whisper, surprised at how even my voice is.

"Don't lie to me, Dean." He shoves me against the nearest tree. I scream as the bark comes into contact with my shoulder, setting it on fire again.

"I didn't say anything, sir," I say through gritted teeth.

The grip on my shirt tightens as he jerks me away from the tree, throwing me onto the forest floor. "Someone's. Gotta. Teach. You. How. To. Respect. Your. Elders," he grunts, each word accompanied by steel-toed boots hitting my already-painful stomach. I bite back another scream; it'll be worse if I do anything. _At least you're not dead,_ I tell myself, tasting blood at the back of my throat. I'd laugh if I could actually breathe. Suddenly, Dad spins on his heel and stalks towards the main path. Unable to do anything more than lie there, I stare at the clouds and listen to the angry footsteps leaving. Maybe he'll finally do what he says he's going to and leave me here. That'd be nice.

"Get up. Worthless," he throws over his shoulder.

When did I get so used to being called things like that?

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"If you don't tell someone, I will." Looking Jimmy in the eyes is kind of scary, like he can see your soul. And I've got a pretty screwed-up soul.

"You're not going to have time to. We're leaving in ten minutes."

"Are you sure-"

"Look," I say, fighting off the tears filling up the bottom of my eyes. Why the hell am I crying? "If anything, your sister is just another reason I _shouldn't_ tell anyone."

He glances back up from the register, surprised. "What?"

"She got killed 'cause you told, didn't she?"

"It… she didn't… _no._ It wasn't my fault." Now _he's_ almost crying, too. God, this is turning into a soap opera.

"Carolyn… she was the reason I told my cousin. One night Dad got more pissed than usual and… she's still alive."

Now it's my turn to be surprised. _"What?"_

"Dean," barks Dad from the other side of the diner. "You gonna kiss him goodbye? We're leaving."

" _Hospital_ ," Jimmy mouths, and I nod, wincing as I raise my shoulder to wave goodbye.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

I don't know how I work up the courage to ask. "Could we stop at the hospital? Just for five minutes."

Dad turns fully around in his seat, glare baring into me. "Why?"

"Jimmy told me something about one of the patients. Sounds like the werewolves aren't all as dead as we thought," I reply, surprised at how easily the lie comes to mind. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I guess.

"Five minutes."

"Thanks, sir."

The hospital brings back way too many bad memories to sort through, so I walk up to the front desk in a dazed paranoia. It takes me a few minutes to realize the woman behind the desk is asking what I need.

"What room is Carolyn Novak in?" I mumble.

"109, sweetie," she says. I whisper my thanks and find the room relievingly fast.

The girl inside looks almost the same as the blue-eyed seven-year-old in the picture, just older. Seeing people in comas is always weird; it's like finding Snow White in the forest and not being able to save her.

 _She was the reason I told my cousin._

Whatever happened to her, it wasn't because Jimmy told anyone. Crap- that could be Sammy. I get there too late again, and he's as good as dead. I stand in the doorway for a few more minutes and I'm about to leave when it hits me; the girl looks exactly like Mom. Gasping, I take a few steps closer to her, awkwardly reaching towards her limp hand. It's cold; too cold for someone who's still alive.

 _I swear to god, Sammy,_ I think, trying to will the girl's eyes open. _I'm not letting this happen to you._

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 **I said no Castiel. There was nothing about Castiel's vessel in the statement.**

 **Just as a heads-up, the next few chapters are going to be less intense. I don't want to get to the good part too soon, you know? So there's not going to be as many dreams about killing Mary and almost dying and stuff.**

 **Thanks for reviewing! All feedback is appreciated!**


	5. Part One: Giving Up the Angels

Chapter Five- Good Little Soldier- Giving Up the Angels

 **Disclaimer: Fanfiction. Has the word fan right there in the name. I am a fan, writing about preexisting characters. I did not create Dean.**

 **This took forever! I'm so sorry! If the title gives you any idea, it was pretty hard to write. And Season 10 came out… so…**

 **Just a warning- there's an implied rape scene in the next chapter. It really isn't very much, but I'll mark it with ***** for the people who don't want to read it.**

 **Oh. This, too. Melody-Winchester if you have Netflix, they have seasons 1-10. I know not all countries' Netflix has it, but you can change your account to get American shows, too. Also, the CW has an app with recent episodes on it. Hope that helps; no one should be deprived of Supernatural.**

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"Did the werewolf do that?" Sam asks.

I turn my attention back to my stomach. It looks like a kindergartner went crazy with red marker. "Yeah."

"What about that?" He points to the bruises on my ribs.

 _Dad did that._ "No, Sammy. I got those sword fighting a unicorn."

Sam glares. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Careful he doesn't see the scars on my back, I pull my shirt back down and get up to leave. "Come on. We've gotta go."

He grabs his stuff and gets up, but the worried expression never leaves his face. _He shouldn't be worried about you,_ something in the back of my mind says. Something that sounds a hell of a lot like Dad. _Worthless._

"Sam," I say, turning around to face him. "I'm going to be fine. I've had worse. So stop worrying and let's go, okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

Dad glares as we climb into the backseat. _What is it this time?_ I wonder, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

"Dean," he says, almost too calmly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Where'd you put the knife?"

The words pull my muscles taunt. "The…"

"Knife? You use it to kill werewolves?"

Crap. _No._ "It's in the trunk," I say, voice wavering. _Or it's in the middle of the woods four towns back._

"See, it's _not._ And you know how I feel about you losing my stuff."

"I-"

" _Dean._ You screw up one more time, I swear to god…" his sentence trails off in a threatening cliffhanger as he glances from me to Sam. You could cut the tension with a lost knife. I keep my eyes down, staring at my shoes and staying away from Dad's stare.

"Sorry, sir," I mumble finally, unable to take the silence any longer.

No answer. _You've really done it this time, haven't you?_

After a few more moments, the engine roars to life and the music drowns out any more of Dad's concealed threats.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

I spend most of the drive with my head pressed against the window, the dull throb it creates in my forehead drowning out the throb in my shoulder. When did this become my life- drowning out pain with more pain? Sighing, I glance over at Sam. He's buried deep in a book, somewhere far, far away from the car and Dad. I wish I could do that. Escape. But Dad gets pissed whenever I try to read one of Sammy's books- _think some kid's book's gonna help you kill this ghost? Get off your worthless ass and come help me._

Eventually I fall asleep for the first time in what feel like days. Hell, it probably _is_ the first time in days. Between Dad and the nightmares and… everything else, it's not like I get much time to rest.

Washington arrives a little too quickly. Sam shakes me awake, and Dad gestures for me to get out of the car.

"Gotta make sure it's safe," he says, jingling the motel room keys. I flinch, hard enough for Sam to notice. Luckily he's back in his book.

"Hey." I tap Sam's shoulder. "It might take a while. I saw a café down the street if you get bored."

"'Kay."

The door hinges are squeaky. For some reason, this really bothers me. I stand at the threshold, hand on the doorknob. Maybe if I just stay here long enough Sammy will come in and save me. I feel like an off-balance tightrope walker; about to fall and get myself hurt. Bad. After a few minutes, Dad clears his throat pointedly, setting his duffel on one of the beds. I take a deep breath and close the door. Sam looks up and smiles at me. _Please, don't let this be the last time I see him. Please._

"What were you _thinking_?" Dad shouts, pushing me further into the room.

I look down at the carpet, praying Sam's already left. He already worries enough about me hunting. If he knew about this…

"I should've killed you a long time ago, you know that?" He pushes me again, hard enough that I fall down. Thoughts racing, I scramble backwards, back hitting the wall. "Would've been easier for all of us if you'd died in that fire. But no. Everyone would have been better off if that werewolf had killed you a week ago. But Dean Winchester can't seem to do anything right. You even screw up dying, you know that?"

I clench my jaw until it feels like my teeth are going to shatter. It's always worse if I cry. Suddenly, I realize I _am_ crying; my heart stops.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says, foot connecting agonizingly with the scars on my stomach. "Did I hurt your feelings? You know, I do a lot for you."

He grabs my shirt collar and yanks me up, my feet barely touching the ground. "I keep you alive…" he starts dragging me towards the bed, the fabric of my shirt rubbing painfully against my shoulder. _Not this. Anything but this._

*****"I try to keep you and your brother safe…" I start to run away, straining against his grip, but he's stronger than me.

"And it pisses me off, you know that?" He shoves me onto the bed, pinning me down. "I do all these things for you, and you go and treat it like it's nothing." I turn my head and look out the window- can't anyone see this?

It's too familiar, the metallic click and the hiss of denim on leather as he takes his belt off.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ I whisper.

"That's touching. And pathetic. I'm sick of you ruining everything you touch, Dean. Though I have to admit, it takes talent. Screwing up _every single thing_ you've done since you were four? Real talent."

I flinch as his hand slides under my t-shirt. _Why did you have to lose the knife? And why did you have to start crying? Worthless. Maybe you deserve it._

Whether I deserve it or not, I end up spending the next hour deciding that if Mom was right, if there are any angels, none of them give a damn about the thirteen-year-old kid being tortured by his father.*****

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"What's the matter, Dean?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired." I turn away from Sam and pull the blanket up. He sighs, and I fight the urge to tell him everything. And then curl into a ball and cry. Instead, I stare at the cracks in the ceiling and force myself to stay awake. For me, not sleeping is just picking the lesser of two nightmares. I stare, unblinking, at the ceiling until the jagged lines blur and disappear. Headlights flash by outside, and I freeze, the engine noise making my shoulders a little tighter and my heartbeat a little faster. Dad shouldn't be home for another hour.

The car passes, driving past the motel towards whatever non-satanic thing normal people drive to at eleven o' clock at night. God, what I'd give for us to have one of those lives. Where I could come home from school every day and _not_ have to hunt down Wendigos and deal with Dad. Sam could go to college, and I'd never have to…

It's never going to happen. And wishing like that is just throwing paper airplanes off a bridge and saying they'll make it to Australia. So why do I do it?

On that note, why _don't_ I do it? Grab Sam and find the next bus out of here, run until Dad's stopped caring, find somewhere to settle down. It would work. I'd get a job. We'd be fine. There'd be questions, of course, like why are a thirteen-year-old and a nine-year-old living alone, or where are your parents, but we'd make up excuses.

But Dad would find us. Some people are like shadows; you stand facing the sun, convinced that there's nothing behind you, and then you turn around to find it's been following you the whole time. And I'm convinced that the few months of paradise I'd get would be my undoing once I came back.

Eventually I force myself to stop thinking about it and fall asleep.

Big mistake.

 _I push frantically at the motel room door with energy long spent on the sprint back home; Dad's words are still echoing in my mind like a siren:_ get home in five minutes, or Sam's gonna get it.

 _"LET ME IN!" I scream. Damn Dad for not giving me the spare key. Damn Dad for most things, but right now the son of a bitch could be killing my brother and I'm out here letting it happen. I feel like I just gave the thumbs-down in a gladiator fight. Finally the door starts to give. One more push, one more burst of nonexistent vitality and it falls._

 _And I'm too late._

 _There's Sam, slumped in the corner with blood that should have been mine staining the carpet, writing a ransom note I couldn't respond to. I get the feeling I'll be paying for it, though._

 _Not a sign of Dad anywhere, which I guess is just as well. Don't want to have two murders in the family tonight. The world outside the room is quiet and dark, from what I can tell, so I say to hell with the threat of the monsters in the corners and the shadows in the closet and drop my gun, sprinting over to Sammy._

 _"I'm sorry Sam… I'm so, so, sorry… Jesus, I'm sorry…" But my words trail off when I realize his eyes, dull from the blood loss, aren't looking at me. Who knows what he's looking at- it's not heaven, because the angels are dead, and it sure as hell isn't hell. But whatever it is, he's dead._

 _And it's my fault._

 _%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%_

I sit up a little too suddenly, head spinning from the motion.

"Dean?" Sam mumbles, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say. My voice sounds weird; too automatic, too rehearsed. Like a bad impression of myself. "I'm fine, Sam. Go back to bed."

He sighs. "You're not fine."

 _Of course I'm not fine. When was the last time I was_ fine _? I haven't been okay in so long that "okay" has just become a synonym for "less crappy than yesterday." And I'm so, so sick of it. I'm not okay with not being okay. I'm the least okay person in the country right now._

"Yes, I am," I say, staring blankly at the wall.

"Dean…" Sam makes an exasperated noise and falls back down on his pillow. "Dad home yet?" he asks.

"Um." I glance over at the other bed. Empty. "No." _Thank god._

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How come it took so long to make the room safe today?"

"There was a ghost," I lie, "but we got it."

And maybe there was a ghost. Maybe Mom really does follow us around, like I used to believe, and she just doesn't give a damn about what happens to me. Whether she's there or not, though, she's still haunting Dad. You can tell, sometimes; he's got this picture of her in his notebook (that goddamn _notebook_ ), and sometimes he takes it out and stares at it. For hours. Watching him when he's like that, you can almost justify the way he dragged his kids into this mess. Justify how obsessed he is with finding whatever killed her.

But eventually he just gets angry- at Mom for dying, at the thing that killed her, and the firemen that he claims could have saved her if they'd showed up fast enough…

At me. For everything.

 _"It should've been you. She deserved to live, but you? You break everything you touch. You're_ worthless. _"_

I kick the covers over to Sam's side of the bed and run outside.

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Maybe I'll get mugged. Or kidnapped. If they're going to hold me for ransom, I don't think they're going to get anything. Just a note saying _keep him_ or _not my problem_ or something. Getting kidnapped actually seems like the better option. It's either that or go back to the motel, where Dad's probably waiting up for me now.

There's a church at the end of the street, with light filtering out of high stained-glass windows. As I get closer, there's voices coming from inside, too; apparently there _are_ non-satanic things for people to do at midnight. Though why anyone would go to church in the middle of the night is beyond me.

Mom used to make us go to church. We'd sit in uncomfortable pews and sing songs I hardly knew the words to. And then the pastor would go up and read something from the Bible, long and confusing as Shakespeare, and she'd lean down and translate for me, spinning the droning words into stories about sacrifice, miracles, revolutions, whales. Then we'd sing some more, and I'd try to keep up but fail, and then we'd go home. When Sammy was born they had him baptized. He cried the entire time. I think he was scared of the water or the minister or both. We never went at night, though. Who the hell goes to church when you could be sleeping?

It takes a moment for it to register that apparently _I_ do.

Here I was trying to think about Mom and _oh look at that,_ I'm sitting in one of the back pews, one of the empty ones that they put there for all the people in town who they hope will see the Light someday. The ones that they don't realize will never be filled. No one's staring at me, thank god (literally, I guess). If anyone saw me, they'd start asking questions. And I'm too tired to lie when they ask.

Too sick of being Dad's little soldier.

"Let us pray," says someone, voice ringing through the sanctuary like God himself's.

Everyone bows their heads, pretending they're not actually looking for their friend across the room or glancing at their watch or sleeping, and I stare up at the windows. They look more like paintings than windows, with no light shining through from the outside. And they're all angels. Just what I need.

 _Mom?_ I think. Do the dead read people's thoughts? _Mom…you up there?_

On TV, this is when someone answers back or a piano falls on someone's head or _something_ that lets the main character know their dead person isn't as dead as they thought. This is when she walks through the back door of the church and sits down next to me like the past nine years never happened. This is when I look up and she's in one of the windows, frozen in fragments of glass, shards of yellow and red flaming out around her like the night she died.

 _You up there?_

Nothing.

 _Mom?_

Nothing.

 _Please? I need you…_

…Nothing…

 _MOM._

Nothing.

My paper airplane never makes it to Australia. Instead, I stand up and walk out of the building, thinking about screaming _I love Satan_ until the door shuts behind me with a very un-churchlike bang.

Suddenly my ribcage feels too small. And there's something pressed up against it, a big scary bird that needs out of its cage. I start running, sprinting as hard as I can and trying to beat the feeling into the concrete, but it doesn't go away. I need to scream- _no,_ I need to kill someone- _no,_ I need to go home- but home's dead, home's a skeleton of a house states and states away, home's the shadow of a Kansas song and a photo in a journal I'm not allowed to touch.

I need Mom- _yes,_ but Mom's wherever home is, somewhere in my chest between the scars and this _thing_ that needs out.

The woods are empty this late at night, so I keep running until I've found a clearing far enough away from civilization that no one will find me. I slam my fist into the nearest tree, and the feeling in my chest goes away a little so I do it again, and again. And eventually my knuckles are red and hurt like _hell,_ but _you deserve it for crying._ I _am_ crying, I realize. Breathing hollow and tinny, I take a few steps back and sit down. I stand up almost immediately, though.

"Hi, God?" I say loudly, not caring how much my voice breaks. "Angels? Whoever's up there? Last chance, guys. One last chance to prove I haven't been talking to myself all these years. That I haven't been hoping you're going to do something about…" I can't explain it "… _this,_ when you aren't. So, show me. One of you had better get your feathery ass down here, or I'm checking myself into a mental asylum. At least then I could get away from my dad. Or do you not know about that? Are you just _conveniently_ stalking someone else when he beats the crap out of me?"

Tears leave warm trails down my face that are quickly destroyed by the almost- January wind.

"You too, Mom. Would it kill you to help your son? Or are you on Dad's side? What's going on- are you sitting up there eating popcorn when he treats me the way he does? I thought you were the good parent."

I stand in the clearing for another half an hour, chest heaving, head reeling, screaming anything I can think of at heaven. Nothing happens.

"Screw you all," I whisper. "I can take care of myself." I can't, but apparently I have to. Sam, too. God, who decided this was all on _me_?

And I'm going to stop talking to myself, because that's all I was ever doing. That's it; no more angels, no more prayers that nobody hears, and no more wishing and hoping for things to get better when they obviously won't.

I walk out of the woods, breath leaving clouds in the triangles of light the streetlights leave. A couple of stars find their way out of the clouds. Mom used to say you could wish on stars. _Mom used to say a lot of things._

About halfway home Dad finds me and picks me up, throwing me in the backseat and slurring at me the entire drive back.

 _Running away, are we? Leaving your brother behind? That'd be fine, you know. Just proves my point- you can't take care of anything._

 _It's pathetic._

 _You're pathetic._

 _Worthless._

I press my forehead against the window and wonder if he's right.

By the time I'm back in bed, I've decided that he is.

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 ***Hides behind Impala***

 ***Dodges rotten fruit***

 **I know. But don't worry- help is on the way! In six or seven chapters! I'll try to update sooner.**

 **Sorry for the mini- rant, but I'm still on season 10 and I'm really mad they cured Deanmon. I have this thing about the villains, and evil people… I was about to give up my Samgirlism. But _no,_ because he's Dean effing Winchester, they couldn't keep him evil, could they? They had to go with the Brother Melodrama scene and make me cry instead of more awesome Dean-doesn't-care-who-he-murders episodes. I was expecting _so much more_ demonicness from him this season! Like why no more Deanmon?! **

**Okay. I'm done now. Review, follow, et cetera.**

 **~sparkle**


	6. Part One: Glass Box

Chapter Six- Good Little Soldier- Glass Box

 **Disclaimer: Supernatural. Not mine.**

 **Hi strangers! Sorry it's taken me so long to update. But Thanksgiving break is here, so I'll be updating a few chapters in the next five days or so. Hopefully. That's the plan.**

 **So, life: tests are the worst. I watched the Breakfast Club and it's now my favorite movie- John Bender is totally Dean when he was in high school. Also, it's way too early for me to be this tired.**

 **Warning: the nightmare in this chapter is a little dark. Not like abuse-and-ghosts dark, but like creepy-metaphors dark. Also, the least graphic rape scene in the history of rape scenes, but there is still rape. So be warned.**

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway: is there really a torture class? Can I sign up?**

 **PriWinchester: thanks! I thought people would be mad at the no- Cas thing.**

 **Everyone: yes, yes, Bobby is coming. Patience.**

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I want out.

Out of the _family business,_ out of this motel room that gets smaller every time I blink; I'm even done with taking care of Sammy. Because what's the point? Why am I sitting here, letting Dad do whatever the hell he wants with me, when there's not even a chance I'll ever get out of this? And, a better question, why did it take me nine years to even start asking myself this?

I know why. Because of Mom. Because she used to say that angels were watching over me, and I used to believe her, and I thought that everyone would get some fairytale ending where she came back and we all rode off into a sugar-coated sunset. Because I used to think that somewhere, sometime there would be someone who gave a crap about the worthless little kid in the back of the room. It's been three months since the church, and I still try to see into somewhere that doesn't exist through a motel ceiling sometimes. Habits are hard to break- especially if they were the only thing keeping you going.

Sam's going to be home from school in a couple hours. Dad didn't even enroll me in this town- _I need you helping me, not wasting your time. You'd fail, anyway. Worthless._ I flatten my hands against my eyes and try not to fall asleep on top of the pile of books. Like we don't know anything about vengeful spirits. I feel like a hamster wheel.

"Got anything new?" Dad barks from the other side of the room.

"No, sir."

"Well, find something. I've got the next vic lined up."

"Okay."

I start reading again, but the words and letters rearrange themselves into something about Mom and I can't concentrate. How easy would it be to run away? Maybe I wouldn't even take Sam. I wouldn't have to, right? Sammy's Dad real son. I'm just a soldier running around following orders. Expendable. He wouldn't miss me. But that doesn't mean he'd start hitting Sam, right? The only time's he's done it before is because of me.

Maybe he's right. I am the reason for everything wrong in this family.

Without me, it'd just be a father-son superhero tag team, running around the country chasing monsters…

Or this perfect, happy family, with a two-story house in Kansas and one perfect, happy kid…

He left his keys right by the door. _You know where you'd be if I'd done what I should've and left you on a street somewhere?_ Happier. I stand up. "I'm gonna go get a soda."

"You have money?"

"Yeah."

He glares. "Two minutes."

I nod and walk out the door, past the vending machine toward the stairs. Elevator would take too long.

The Impala's in the same place he parked it two days ago. And his journal is sitting on the passenger seat. I'm insane. I'm scared to death, and I'm insane. There's a fake ID in my pocket, which Dad should've known was a time bomb the moment he made it for me, and all my stuff- important stuff, anyway- is still in the backseat.

 _You know where you'd be?_

 _Happier._

Dad's journal ends up on the pavement next to me. Mom's picture ends up in my hands. I stare at it. And then I realize: _she left me._ She _left_ me and even if she can see me she hasn't done anything about the hell Dad's been putting me through. _She. Left. Me,_ I think as I slowly rip the photo in half, right down the center of the house I used to have and the dead mother I had until three months ago.

I glance up at the window as I pull out of the parking lot. Dad's there, giving me five more reasons not to come back as he waves with a sick smile on his face.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

It's been five hours and one and a half states since I ran away. And I swear to god, if Sammy's hurt I'm going to kill someone. I've spent the entire drive worrying about him. Every single possible scenario has played- him coming back from school and nothing happening, him coming home and Dad taking him out for ice cream because he finally got rid of me, Sam coming home and getting killed. Somehow, it always ends on that one. And I always speed up a little, like maybe if I keep driving I'll forget about him or something. Wouldn't that be nice. Never having to worry about my pain-in-the-ass little brother again.

Except he's my _brother._

And as mad as I can get, as jealous and as pissed and as mad, I'm never going to stop loving him. God knows no one else is going to say that about a Winchester kid. Not even the Winchester kids' father. That thing murdered Mom and took my Dad with it. Because three weeks after the fire, that goddamned demon killed the dad who used to love his kid and take him fishing and sometimes let him stay up late watching movies because they were on and he didn't want to deal with bedtimes. The demon killed him, and replaced him with this monster that specifically tries to kill four-year-olds who never did anything but save their little brother.

I'm about to pass out. Next exit, I turn and find a random parking lot. Then I climb into the backseat, wishing Sam was here because I know it's gonna be a bad night, and force myself to fall asleep.

 _"Come on, Dean. Don't be like that."_

 _It's dark, too dark, and there's hands everywhere and I can't breathe god I can't breathe…_

 _I struggle against their grip, but it just gets tighter and the breath on the back of my neck gets hotter. "Deeee-aaaaan…"_

 _Finally I manage to squirm away, but it's too dark for me to run very far so I end up just stumbling around until I hit a wall. I turn around to go a different way, but there's a wall there, too. And no matter which way I turn, there's always a freaking_ wall _in my way so eventually I just sit down but the floor's wet._

 _Then a light somewhere turns on. And I'm in this glass box that's filling up with water, only when I look down it's not water because water isn't red and doesn't make me want to pass out. I look up- the box has a ceiling. I'm trapped._

 _"HELP!" I scream, but the box must be soundproof or something because there's people walking by and none of them notice me._

 _Then Mom shows up._

 _She just stands there, looking the same as she did when she took that picture in Dad's notebook. Like a paper doll, all perfect and two-dimensional. But still. She's looking right at me._

 _"Help," I try again, softer, but she doesn't do anything but smile._

 _"He's right," she says finally, then she walks away. I bang on the glass, trying to get her attention again, but the only thing that does is make the blood rise higher. It's at my knees. I bang on the wall again, and then I realize it's not just blood it's_ Sam's _blood, and I'm freaking drowning in it and everything's my fault, isn't it? And now it's up to my shoulders, and no matter how many times I push against the walls and ceiling it doesn't do anything except maybe make the box even smaller._

 _I'm gonna drown in here._

 _I'm gonna drown in here._

 _I'm gonna drown-_

I wake up to sirens. Nervous-parent, my-kid-ran-away sirens attached to cars full of hypocrites.

"DEAN!" Dad shouts, puling open the door and yanking me out of the car. "Oh, god, you're alive. You know what I went through, trying to find you? Why would you run off like that?"

It's so convincing even I almost believe him. But I'm too close to his eyes, and the grip on my shoulder is too tight.

A police officer pulls me aside. "Hey, kid. That was a pretty stupid move. There're some crazy people around."

 _Yeah, like the one who called you._ "Yes, sir."

"I'm pretty sure your dad can take care of this."

"I won't take his car next time."

He sighs. "Promise me. No next time, okay kid?"

"Yeah," I lie breathlessly. I'm still not over the dream; I keep looking down at the ground and expecting there to be blood everywhere. And I'm scared to walk back towards Dad because I might break the glass and everyone will see how goddamn _broken_ and _worthless_ I am and Dad will get mad at me for showing them.

"Keys," he says. I hand them over and reach for the passenger door.

"Backseat. You're lucky I'm not shoving you in the trunk. Or into the freeway."

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

We pull over in the middle of a bridge on an abandoned road. "Get out," he barks. I do.

"What the _hell_ were you doing? After everything… Jesus Christ, Dean. You've done some pretty stupid things…" he pushes me onto the hood of the car, "but this is way up there on the list."

His fist slams into my jaw, and even though there's a knife in my pocket and I could reach it, I don't try. It's my fault for running away, isn't it? It's my fault for being stupid enough to take the car and rip up Mom's picture and think I could actually escape.

"Sam…" I gasp between hits.

"He's fine. I told him you were hunting by yourself. Which is the _only_ way I would've let you leave like that."

"Then I was hunting," I say with a little too much confidence.

His glare changes from angry to twisted. "Get in the car. Backseat."

"Dad…"

"And don't call me that."

It's too hot in the car. And I'm too exhausted to deal with this right now. But I had it coming. So I lie down in the backseat and let him do whatever he wants, because that's all I do and all I've ever done for the past nine years. Because he shoved me in this box nine years ago when he came back to the motel room and Sammy was asleep and I was in the shower, and now I can't get out.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"Dean!"

Sam runs to greet me, wrapping his arms around me like I just returned from war or something.

"H-hey, Sammy." I plaster a smile on my face and hug him back. It hurts like hell, but at the same time it kind of ties up all the loose ends inside me.

"Did you go find a monster?"

 _You mean Dad?_ "Yeah."

"Did you kick its ass?"

I laugh. "Yeah."

Dad goes into the other room, calling over his shoulder that we should go to bed. I grab a t-shirt and walk into the bathroom. I don't turn the lights on while I'm changing. And I sure as hell don't look at the ceiling fan and pray to people who aren't going to answer me.

Sam's already in bed when I come out. I crawl in with him, even though there's another bed, because that's what we do and also because I'm too pathetic and scared to sleep alone. He keeps talking about all the monsters he's going to kill when he's old enough and I try not to let it tear me apart too much. _No one_ wants _to be a hunter,_ I think. _No one should want to be a hunter. No kid should say "when I grow up, I wanna be an alcoholic who drives around killing stuff because of a family tragedy from years and years ago."_

"Sammy. Promise me something?"

"What?"

"Promise me you won't let Dad drag you into all this. Don't start hunting. Don't try to kill monsters.

"But Dad says I'm gonna get to help you someday. Cuz it's the family business."

"That's bull. Don't listen to him. Killing monsters for a living… changes people. And I don't want that to happen to you."

"Why not?"

"Because… you still leave cookies outside the motel room door on Christmas Eve, even though you don't believe in Santa anymore. You give money to the homeless dudes on street corners. And you don't complain about being dragged around the country in a twenty-year-old car fueled by revenge and beer."

He's quiet for a while. Then- "why does hunting change people?"

I sigh and glance at the door, half expecting Dad to walk through. "They say you become like the people you hang out with most, right?"

Sammy nods.

"Well," I exhale, shifting onto my back and turning the lamp off. "Hunters hang out with a hell of a lot of monsters."

"Are you gonna change because of the monsters, Dean?"

I look up at the ceiling, trying to find a crack to keep me awake. "I hope not."

God, I hope not.


	7. Part One: Razors in the Cabinet

Chapter Seven- Good Little Soldier- Razors in the Cabinets

 **Disclaimer: Supernatural is a show on the CW. I do not work for the CW. Figure it out.**

 **Hey everyone! So… update… I started a new religion at my school. My social studies teacher thinks I'm a mass murderer (fanfiction writers basically are). I have a dance recital on Saturday that I am definitely not ready for.**

 **I can't believe how many people have read this! Thank you!**

 **Anyway, I just got this idea about thirty seconds ago (yall know how that happens) so let's see how this goes.**

 **Trigger warning: mentions of rape/ child abuse (you really should know this by now), suicidal thoughts**

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Dad seems worse lately. And the lack of sleep doesn't help. I've given up completely on trying to get more than an hour or two a night; most nights I don't even blink. Most nights Dad doesn't let me sleep, with the salt-and-burns and the _hunting buddies_ and watching Sam while he's gone.

Basically, it's all going downhill. And it was pretty damn far down the hill to start with.

There's half an hour between my school and Sam's school getting out. And on the rare occasion I can't find an excuse to come home late- I'm pretty sure I'm the only kid who _wants_ to get detention- it's half an hour of hell.

I take a long time turning the key before I open the door. It's been six months, and I still keep imagining walking through and seeing Sam on the floor. _Sam's at school,_ I tell myself. The door swings open, sentencing me to death, and I walk through. No point in standing in the doorway forever- though it seems that's what I'm doing. Waiting for Dad to kill me or for the courage to do it myself.

I'm not suicidal, really. Just done. Done with Dad, and Sammy, and secrets and glass boxes that won't stop filling with blood.

"You're home," Dad says, setting his book down.

"You figure out what it is yet?" I ask. It's pointless to tell him I know it's a djinn; he'd never listen to me anyway.

"Not yet."

This is wrong. Having a semi-normal conversation with him. It's standing in a lion's den waiting for the tiny shred of sunlight to reveal where the hungry mouths are. I drop my bag on the floor by my bed and walk into the bathroom and lock the door. Habit- he'll find a way to break in if he wants to. There's nothing I can do to stop him. Well, that's not entirely true.

I could die.

And wouldn't that solve so much? Dad couldn't hurt me. I wouldn't be here to mess everything up. The way he makes it seem, world hunger will end the second I stop breathing. Slowly, I lift my eyes up and risk glancing in the mirror. Maybe he's right; there's nothing but flaws looking back at me. Dark shadows under my eyes, because I'm too _scared_ to sleep at night. Purple jawline, because I'm too _weak_ to stand up for myself. Tear-filled eyes, because I'm _pathetic_ enough to cry at stuff like this.

Who's going to care, anyway? Bobby? He's lost enough people in his life. He'll deal. Maybe he'd finally figure out what really happened that night six months ago.

 _"When I say come back in ten minutes, I mean come back in ten friggin' minutes. Now look what you did to your brother."_

Sam. He needs me. I kick the edge of the bathtub a few times before I sit down on the tile and bury my face in my hands. _There's a razor in the cabinet…_ No. I'm staying here for Sam- I'm sure as hell not staying here for me- because the kid needs me. Who knows what Dad would do if I wasn't standing between him and Sammy. Probably the same crap he does to me. _There's a razor in the cabinet…_ and I'm not going to use it. What if Dad and his friends found Sam… I couldn't live- die- with that. No, I can't do it.

 _There's a razor in the cabinet…_

 _Shut up._

 _It'd be better for everyone…_

 _Sam._

 _Sam would get over it. He'd get over it a lot faster than you'd like to admit._

 _That's not even true…_

 _Oh, it isn't? He told you himself; he can't wait to get out of this family. Away from you._

 _Away from Dad._

 _And you. There's a razor in the cabinet…_

 _QUIT SAYING THAT!_

The bathroom door shakes. Dad'll have it open in a minute or two. Who would have thought; the bastard saved my life. I blink a few times and realize I'm standing, and the cabinet door's open. I take a long, shaky breath, and back up against the far wall.

It'll be five extra seconds of mostly-pain-free existence.

I pull my knees up to my chest and lean my head against the wall. God, I need to get out of here. But Sam's coming home in a few minutes, and if Dad touches him again I'm going to have to be there to kill him. For a second, I think about talking to Mom. She used to say that she'd always be able to hear me _she used to say a lot of things._ And I almost believe her, but why wasn't she there that night at the church then?

 _There's a razor in the cabinet…_

I'd have to write a note. Telling the truth about Dad, explaining to Sam why I had to do it, thanking Bobby for everything he ever did without asking questions about where this scar came from or why I was flinching so much. There's no way I could do it without flipping myself inside out on a piece of paper. But there's nowhere to write it and I don't have a pen or pencil. I could write it in blood, God knows there's enough of that on my back right now, but that would scare Sam even more.

The front door bangs open and I hear Sam drop his stuff on the floor. "Hey Dad," he says, voice trembling. _Oh, god,_ I think, standing up and walking towards the other room. _What happened?_

"Hey kid. Something wrong?" Dad asks. It almost makes me laugh. The man's like Jekyll and Hyde.

"I- I don't feel so good…" Sammy says. Then he races by me into the bathroom.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"I'll be home late. You know the rules."

"Shoot first, ask questions later, and watch out for Sammy." I glance over at Sam, laying in the bed like he's never getting up. He's done nothing but sleep and puke for the past two hours. We don't have a thermometer, but I'm positive he has a fever. Of course Dad isn't going to get medicine or anything, even though I've told him Sam needs it and it's for his real son.

Sammy's always been the favorite. He's the one Dad cares about, the one he drives to school and buys Christmas presents for on the rare occasion he's not hunting or drunk. Sam is his son. I'm the _thing_ he can do whatever he wants with. That's how it's been since I was four; nothing's changing anytime soon.

It's fine. But Sammy's sick. And my dumbass _father_ won't even get him medicine.

If the kid wasn't in the room, I would've killed Dad by now.

Instead, I sit in the empty space on the bed next to Sam and turn the TV on. "What d'you wanna watch?" I ask.

"Don't care," he slurs, leaning against my chest. "I wanna sleep."

"Okay."

I flip through the channels. The lights are off, and the only light in the room is flashing headlights from outside and the screen flickering like a ghost. There's nothing worth watching, but it's nice to have something to zone out at. You know how they say TV numbs your brain? Brain-numbing is exactly what I need right now. I spend most of the time watching Sam fall asleep.

"De…" he mumbles, eyes fluttering open a crack. "What was Mom like?" The question makes me freeze. The last time he asked me that, he was five and it was three am. "Before the monsters got her," he adds. I run a hand through his hair and press my hand to his forehead. Fever. Damn it; how am I gonna know if it's hot enough to take him to the hospital?

"Mom was awesome," I say. It's the same thing I used to tell him almost every night when he was littler. I memorized the stories, word for word. "Every Sunday she made this huge breakfast for us. You never got old enough to eat any, but it was always delicious. And sometimes she'd take us to the park for the entire day, because Dad was at work and she just wanted to be outside. She was home every single Christmas; always baked cookies and got tons of presents for everyone."

"What else?" he murmurs.

I take a deep breath and keep going. "And on Christmas morning she'd wake up at six am and run around singing Christmas carols until everyone was awake. Actually, I'm pretty sure the neighbors woke up, too." Sam laughs, which turns into a cough. "She'd celebrate everything- said that being alive was a good enough reason for going with every single holiday she knew about. And Dad didn't really care much, but she always convinced him to dress up for Halloween and help her bake a cake for National Smile Day or something. You should've seen her when you were born. She threw a zero-eth birthday for you. This was after the baby shower, too.

"And she had a lot of faith. In everything. She told Dad it was going to snow in the middle of a drought. Most of the time it never did, but that never stopped her. Every night she told us that there were angels watching over us. Then she'd look out the window and say 'see? They're right there.'

"She loved you, Sammy. She loved you a lot."

"I bet she loved you, too. I bet she loved you more, 'cuz she knew you longer."

I sigh and turn the TV off, plunging the room into darkness. "Believe me- if she had a favorite, it was you, Sammy."

"Sing her song," he whispers.

 _"Carry on my wayward son…"_

I wonder if Dad ever figured out it was a Djinn. Maybe he'll die. Or maybe he'll get trapped in one of the perfect worlds they stick people in.

 _"There'll be peace when you are done…"_

I'm probably dead in his perfect world.

 _"Lay your weary head to rest…"_

I know he'd be dead in mine.

 _"Don't you cry no more."_

Dad would be dead. And we'd have a house instead of a car and a string of motel rooms longer than Dad's list of felonies. And instead of an abusive son of a bitch who treats his son worse than his notebook, there would be someone who makes breakfast on Sundays and handed out candy on Halloween and never let her kids doubt that they were safe or loved or going to make it through the night.

Sam's asleep, so I close my eyes and pray to nothing as I brace myself for the next hour of nightmares.

 _Please. I don't want to wake up._

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 **This took a lot longer than I thought it would. Sorry!**

 **WHO'S EXCITED FOR LUCIFER COMING BACK?! THERE ARE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE OMFG TWO DAYS GUYS. TWO DAYS UNTIL THE BEST CHARACTER ON THE SHOW IS FREAKIN BACK. AHHHHHHHHHHHH**

 **Hope you've been having a good December. I know I have (see above.)**


	8. Part One: Hit the Fan

Chapter Eight- Good Little Soldier- Hit the Fan

 **Hi guys. Warning: this chapter and the next chapter are gruesome. And kind of evil. And very fanfiction-y. Like, my beta said I was a terrible person and should never write again. So, turn back now. It only gets more depressing. I'm sorry Dean.**

 **Also, yes I know the quotes aren't right but I couldn't find them online so deal with it. You get the idea.**

 ** RaisingAmara: yes. Dean stands up to his father about the abuse eventually. That is what's happening. Because I'm a good person. Maybe. Love the username, by the way.**

 ** hsr62: thanks! I hope this is soon enough for you. It definitely wasn't for me…**

 **Anyway, trigger: graphic descriptions of violence, suicidal thoughts, John Winchester is a dick, and general Supernatural-related feels.**

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"Dean! Did you ask him?"

 _No,_ I want to shout into the payphone. _Of course I didn't ask him, because I don't want you getting yourself killed or ruining the half chance at a normal life you still have._ "He said no. Sorry, Sammy."

"But _why?_ I can shoot. I know about monsters now. I don't get why-"

"You're a kid," I cut him off. _You're a kid. You shouldn't be able to do or know what you do._

"You were younger than me when you started…"

God, he sounds so sad and I can practically feel the puppy eyes through the phone. And I wish I could give him what he wants. No, scratch that. I wish I could make him want anything but _this,_ and give that to him. "Yeah, I was. That's not the point Sam. Dad doesn't think you're ready. I mean, you still have an imaginary friend. He probably still sees you as too little."

He sighs. Dad honks at me from across the parking lot. "All right."

"I'll call when we get there, okay?"

"Okay."

"Goodbye, bitch."

"Goodbye, Dean."

I wince at the rejection and hang up, sprinting over to the car. Dad makes me sit in the back again. I don't mind- the further away from him I am, the better. I end up spending most of the drive making up for the sleep I didn't get last night and pretending nothing hurts. If you pretend something's true for long enough, you start to believe it. Monsters aren't real, angels are, Mom's coming back… why should the day-old fire pulsing through me feel any different? By the time we get to the motel, it feels like I'm invincible. Three hours of sleep can do a body good, I guess.

Dad parks the car, but doesn't get out. Instead he turns around to face me. I shrink myself against the window.

"Dean," he says slowly. Menacingly. Like an animal waiting to pounce. "You should really call Sammy back. Tell him to come meet us."

"Why?"

"Because the boy should learn what hunting is really like."

I freeze. The night air around the car freezes. I think the whole world freezes, for a moment. Mom used to say that every time a kid died the world froze. And _Mom used to say a lot of things_ but I can't help but picture Sam lying on the floor with a vampire or ghost or Dad standing over him.

I can't let this happen. I also can't stand up to Dad. This is why I'm worthless- my brother's life could be at stake, and I'm probably going to put him in danger. Because how the hell do I say _no_ to the person who's forced me to say _yes_ my entire life? And damn it, the things he's made me say yes to… my hands are tied so tight I can't feel my fingers. But I also can't let anything happen to Sammy. Anything _else,_ anyway. It was my fault I didn't get home in time to stop Dad last November. I'm not going to let it happen again.

Even if it kills me.

I sit forward in my seat, still convincing myself it's the right decision. _For Sam,_ I think, my first and last battle cry. Then I look Dad in the eyes. God, when was the last time I did that? Before Mom, probably.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No, _sir._ You can do whatever you want with me, but I'm not gonna let you drag Sam into this."

"Oh. _You won't let me._ Sorry, I thought I was the one in charge here. I thought you were the one obeying orders. Apparently it's the other way around. Apologies, your goddamn highness."

"I didn't mean-"

Dad doesn't say another word. I think he's planning all the different ways to kill the scared teenager in the backseat of his car. Then he shoves the key back into the ignition and pulls out of the parking lot faster than the first time Sam ran away. When I ran away, it took him almost a week to even start looking for me. Maybe I could do that now; jump out of the car and bolt. I don't think I'd make it very far, though. I'm already breathing like I just sprinted five miles. And I think I might pass out. If I pass out will he still kill me? That'd be best, I think. Dying while I'm unconscious.

I am going to die, I can tell. He hasn't said anything, but the grip on the steering wheel has tightened to the point that I think he might snap it.

There's a forest a few miles out of town. I saw it on the way in, and that's where we're going. God, I'm going to hyperventilate and kill myself before he gets a chance. Then I'll really have done it. Messed up everything. Even his one chance to kill me. _Worthless. So goddamn worthless._

I'm so petrified I don't even notice we've stopped.

"Get out," he says. When I don't move, he opens the door and grabs my jacket collar, dragging me into the trees like I'm already a body he's trying to hide. I let my feet drag on the ground a little, hoping it'll slow him down, but it only makes him go faster.

 _I never even got to tell Sammy about this. He's never gonna know…_

 _%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%_

My back presses against the rough tree bark. Dad leans close, hot coppery breath hitting my face.

"I should've done this a long time ago. Right after Mary died. You were always so much like her…" he pauses, and for a minute I can see him as a human, but the minute fades too quickly to register. "Except she wasn't so _pathetic._ And she didn't deserve what she got." Dad draws back a little, fingers digging under my shirt and coming back up with my necklace.

 _Sam. God, Sam, I'm so sorry._

"This was supposed to me mine, you know," he says softly, almost reverently. "But then Sammy decided to give it to his worthless brother. All because that same brother went and told him about monsters. When I had specifically told him not to."

 _Sammy, I know you can't hear me, but I don't care and I'm sorry, so, so, sorry, and I hope you know that. And you're never gonna know why this had to happen. Damnit, Sammy, don't be me. Don't let Dad do anything to you. Run away. Call the cops. Anything I was too scared to do, you do it. Because I'm not gonna be here very much longer._

The he starts punching. And he doesn't stop.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

I lie face-up on the forest floor, trying to get any oxygen, any at all, through my lungs. But it has to get through a split lip and under cracked and broken ribs, and air doesn't try very hard.

"You're _worthless,_ Dean."

"Can't… breathe…" I manage, trying to see past him to the stars. Mom used to say when you died you because one. _Mom used to say a lot of things…_

"I don't care. Nobody _cares-_ " he kneels down, straddling my chest "-about _pathetic_ little Dean, who breaks every single thing he touches. Who almost let his brother die. More that once. _Worthless."_

Dad pulls my t-shirt up over my ribs, the fabric leaving a trail of needles over the new cuts and bruises. A small, sadistic smile creeps over his face and he pulls out a knife. I whimper. He laughs. Story of my life- death, now, I guess. He leans forward, barely piercing the skin beneath my ribs. Fire shoots through me. I scream and grab his wrist, but he pins my hands above me and keeps going.

"Let's show everyone what you are."

Pain grips me and holds me down, screaming and shaking. Dad keeps digging in, carving my stomach just deep enough to turn my vision black at the edges. When I realize what he's doing, I wish he was going in deeper.

 _"Let's show everyone what you really are."_

W.

O.

R.

T.

H.

L.

E.

S.

S.

Then he gets up, walking back towards the Impala and leaving the knife lying in the dirt next to me.

He didn't kill me. He was supposed to kill me. I was completely okay with finally getting away from him. No more hunting. No more taking care of Sam. No more Dad.

Instincts take over. Desperate, dying, survival-of-the-fittest instincts. I shift to my side, yelping as everything sparks in protest, and grab the knife. Then I crawl over to the nearest tree and lean against it.

 **No more hurting.**

I pull up my shirt sleeve.

 **No more angels.**

It won't take much. I'm already bleeding out. How long does it take- ten, fifteen minutes? A week or so ago, I wouldn't have done it. But the way I see it now, I can hurt for an hour, or ten minutes. This is why they put dogs down, right? Why they have assisted suicide?

 **No more scars.**

Sam's going to hate me, if he ever finds out. He probably already does hate me. Everyone hates me. I'm worthless.

 **No more caring.**

It doesn't hurt.

 **No more Dad.**

I lift my head and watch, fascinated, as the blood drips down my arm. I deserve this, don't I? Nobody's going to miss me. Not really, anyway. I glance up. You can't usually see so many stars, this close to civilization. Mom used to say when you died, you became a star. I'm starting to believe her. Maybe because your faith only really shows when you most need it. I do believe Mom. There are angels, and she's one of them, isn't she?

She was right. About the stars. Someone's going to find me, and I'll be in all the papers and on the Internet. I'll be an example. One of the pictures next to a 'this happened because no one cared enough to stop it' headline. I'll be a star, one way or another. Maybe Jimmy Novak will see. Maybe he'll cry. I doubt it, but it's a nice thought.

 **No more hurting.**

 **Maybe there's angels.**

 **No more scars.**

 **No more caring.**

 **No more Dad.**

I close my eyes and let my head fill with smoke and the powdered sugar Mom used to sprinkle on cookies.

No more Dean Winchester.

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 **HE'S A WINCHESTER HE'LL COME BACK PLEASE DON'T KILL ME AND MERRY ALMOST CHRISTMAS.**


	9. Part One: Pie Saves Lives, Wayward Son

Chapter Nine- Good Little Soldier- Pie Saves Lives, My Wayward Son

 **Disclaimer: it's chapter nine. I'm done writing these things.**

 **Well, no one killed me. Remind me to not let the girl who writes Jack Dawson/reader fluff proofread my chapters. Also, I bent the reaper/dead person laws a little. Just a little. I'm sorry this chapter isn't as emotional as it could be; I don't have any real experience with meeting dead loved ones in the woods after I committed suicide.**

 ** sunshine102987: OH MY GANDALF I KNOW IT HURT ME TO THIS IS THE MOST WRITER FEELS I'VE EVER HAD!**

 ** growleytria: I never thought about the Trickster. But I'm not gonna have any angels in this fic. I feel like it would kind of ruin Dean's perspective- with the whole no angels thing. Don't worry though- someone else makes a special appearance in this chapter.**

 ** Tie-Dyed Broadway: I am psychotic. And if you want more proof, feel free to smile through the next chapter, too.**

 **Trigger Warning: mentions of suicidal thoughts, enough death to write an MCR song about, and more feels than the last chapter. Stop and get the tissues, seriously.**

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The forest is still empty. Groggy, I sit up and look around at the trees caging me in. It's raining, only I can't really feel it hit me. It smells like blood, and that triggers something in my mind, a forgotten song lyric with the tune playing in the background, but I can't place it. So I start walking straight ahead; I have no idea which way leads to the road, but it's a start. I glance up, remembering that there's a star that always points north, even though I don't know which star. Doesn't matter, though; the clouds have blocked them all out. Again, with the itch in the back of my mind. What am I forgetting?

After a while, I reach another clearing, and suddenly everything falls back into place. Because there's a necklace lying on the ground, the red stain on the gold trying and failing to run off with the rain.

I'm dying. Or dead. Dad tried to kill me. We both did, actually. My death was a team effort. That's a nice thought- we finally worked together on something. The one thing my father and I could both agree on was that I would be better off dead than living with him.

Oh, god. Sammy. He's gonna think I left him. Dad's going to make up some bull about me running away or getting killed by a wendigo and the kid's going to believe it. The same way I used to believe in angels. (As if I needed more proof, there aren't any who seem to care about the teenager needing an escort to the afterlife.) Sam's never going to know it happened for him.

And it was all for nothing, wasn't it? All my crap about protecting Sammy. Because the second Dad gets back he's going to start treating him the same way he treated me. Jesus Christ, what have I done?

Someone's calling my name. The voice is distant, and surrounded by wind, but I figure out what direction it is and follow. What the hell; I'm already dead, anyway. What's the worst they can do- bring be back to life? _Actually, that'd be pretty bad._ The sound leads me back the direction I came, and I walk towards it, not really paying attention. When it sounds like its right on top of me, pulling me like two magnets held close, I look up.

Mistake. _Huge_ mistake. This isn't happening, what the hell this isn't _happening._

I blink, unsure and definitely in denial, but there she is. Standing there looking exactly like the picture I tore up, blonde hair blowing back like she has her own personal weather system, and smiling at me like I'm the only other person in the world. She takes a step towards me, and I step back. No. This isn't happening, because I'm not going to let it happen. Not after everything I went through. _She left me._ And I had no one. For nine years. I have nine years of anger boxed up in the back of my chest waiting for the day I get to unload it. And that box is coming out.

"Dean," she says again, eyes filling with tears.

 _You are not going to stand there and cry over me._

I start to scream at her, tell her about what she did to me, and what she left me with, but the words pile up on the tip of my tongue. After what I went through, what makes her think she can fix everything with a smile and remembering my name? Is there a way to kill _restful_ spirits?

"…Mom?" I finally manage.

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She sighs, like she's been holding her breath for the last nine years, and holds out her arms. I take another step back. "Dean. We don't have much time. I missed you so, so much. Dean…?"

I clench my fists and take a tight, shaky breath. "You missed me?"

"It was all I could think about."

"Oh, really? That's adorable. Sorry, my Christmas card must've gotten lost in the mail. Did you ever get mine? It was the same every year, after you died. Your _husband_ was- is- an asshole who does nothing but get drunk and beat up his own kids. Wait, _kid._ Because after you _left us,_ there was no one else to protect Sammy. He doesn't even remember you, did you know that? He doesn't remember you, but he still has nightmares about the night you died. I guess that's just what happens when you're six months old and your mom burns on the ceiling right above you." Everything I say is a dagger, carefully timed and aimed, and it feels _so_ good to be the one throwing and not the target. It feels even better to be saying all this to her. "I used to pray to you, you know. All the goddamn time. Because I thought, someday Mom's going to come home and save me from this _monster_ that is John friggin Winchester. But then I kept praying, and _trying,_ and you never bothered to pick up the damn heaven phone. So I gave up. You know why I'm dead? It's because your _husband_ halfway killed me. And when he left, I decided it'd be easier if I finished what he started. Although _clearly_ I was wrong, because here you are. The very person I stopped believing in. And Jesus, you were the _only thing_ I believed in."

That's it. I don't have anything else to say. She stares at me, awestruck, and I kick the ground a little. It stirs up dirt, which surprises me- if I'm dead, how come I can move living-world stuff? "Jesus, Mom…"

And then there's arms around me, and I'm a little confused at first but then I realize it's her. I hug her back, because no one besides Sam's cared enough to hug me in a long, long time. I hate her, still, but she's my _mom._ And I missed her so goddamn much. She left me, and she didn't lift a finger when I needed her, but she's my _mom._ Right now, she's my mom and she's alive and she's acting like she loves me. No one really loves me, I know, but it's good to have someone to pretend.

"I know, baby," she whispers. "I know. I'm sorry."

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"They wouldn't let me do anything. I tried, Dean. I really did."

"Who's _they?"_

She pulls away a little, looking down apologetically, like a kid who stole the last cookie.

"Mom, don't you dare say angels." I feel anger rising up like bile again, and I drop my arms, backing up a few steps.

"They're real, Dean."

"I'm sure. They just don't give a damn about me."

"That's not true," she says defensively.

"Really? Because if they wouldn't let you do anything to help your own son, they could have done something themselves. Which never happened. So screw them, whether they exist or not."

Mom goes quiet for a minute. Then she looks up at me from under her hair. "Dean… what do you want?"

I don't know. I've never gotten to think about that. I do what Dad wants, and I get what Sammy wants, and there's only so much wanting to go around. There's never enough left for me. What do I want? Mom. Mom alive, and the old house in Kansas and for monsters to not exist. Or for Sammy to go to college like _he_ wants. All of my dreams are tangled up with Sam's.

The trees around us rustle, and I grab Mom's arm. It's instinct, but I don't know where it came from because Dad would have killed me if I'd done that. "Reapers," she hisses, glaring at the trees. Suddenly it's all too clear what she meant when she asked what I wanted.

Do I want to live or die?

Sam needs me. I should stay. If I don't, who's going to protect Sammy? The angels? I'm not leaving my brother in the care of a bunch of winged douchebags. Then again, Sam's not me. He's smart; if Dad tried anything, he'd tell someone. He's not a pathetic little fly caught in a web of loyalty and guilt trips, like I am. He'd get out alive. And I'd be here- with Mom. The one who cares about me. Maybe we'll learn how to play harp and cloud surf together. That'd be nice.

And there's no way I'm thinking straight. Sam loves Dad. He'd stay, wouldn't he? God, the kid's ten years old. Older than I was, but still. And even if he went and lived with Bobby or Pastor Jim, he'd still start hunting. And that's the polar opposite of what he should be doing. He could be a lawyer or a brain surgeon or freaking President. Also, Bobby and Jim are Dad's friends. Sure, they haven't done anything yet, but that doesn't mean anything. I used to trust a lot of his _friends._ And now I don't trust anyone.

Except Mom. Who is standing in front of me, real enough to touch, and not a photo. And I could stay with her. I wouldn't even _be_ here if I hadn't slit my wrist to get away from Dad. Shouldn't I follow through? What's the point of killing yourself if you don't even die?

 _You can't even die right. Useless._

He was right. I should choose Mom. And escape. It'd be easier for everyone. She'd get her son back, I'd get my Mom, and Dad would get rid of me.

I wonder if there's pie in heaven.

 _Pie._

It won't taste as good when I'm dead, will it? Because it won't have been made by actual people. Jimmy Novak will not be in heaven baking pie for a kid he met once at a diner. He will be sitting with his sister, in a hospital room no one else ever visits, waiting for her to wake up. Is that what I'm like right now? Stuck in a hospital bed, with Sam waiting next to me for my eyes to open to bright florescent lights? Just the thought makes me want to go back.

The trees rustle again, barely concealing the vultures hidden behind them, and Mom and I flinch.

"Dean. I can get you out of here, if you want. But if you don't…"

"I don't have any reason to stay there," I say, barely above a whisper. Besides Sam, who can take care of himself if he has to. And that's the thing I've never admitted. Sam doesn't need me, not really. I could die right now, no strings attached. It'd be a hell of a lot easier than going back and having to live with Dad again.

On the other hand, when has my life ever been easy?

I pull Mom into another tight hug, trying in vain to make up for the nine years of lost time. "I love you," I whisper.

"I love you, too. Now run."

It's sudden. Almost too sudden, but the trees get louder and I stop hesitating. Branches grab at me, but I don't slow down. The forest gets blurrier, like an out-of-focus picture, and the air around me turns into quicksand. I think about stopping, and turning around. I can't even die right; how am I supposed to live the rest of my life without screwing up?

 _Carry on my wayward son…_

It's slightly off-key, and a little too winded, but it's the best song I've ever heard. There's something to keep going for; music. God, music can get you through anything. It drowns out the world crumbing around you. And it probably sucks in the afterlife. Harps sound weird. So I keep running, because music.

 _There'll be peace when you are done…_

And hope. Which sounds cheesy, but Dad won't last forever. Someday, at some point, I won't have to be his puppet anymore. And I'll get out of the glass box I'm stuck in. Sam might go to college, and I'm going to be there to see it. Hell, _I_ might go to college. As crazy as that sounds. I'm coming back from the dead; the sky's the limit right now. Yeah, hope's something to live for.

 _Lay your weary head to rest…_

The forest is getting brighter and less forest-y. I just want to go to sleep, but if I do I'll be back at square one. Hey, if I make it out, I can sleep for a month. Maybe longer. There's a reason to go back. Sleep. And waking up in the morning before everyone else when it's not quite dark outside, and you feel invincible. Like being awake before other people gives you superpowers. If that's not a reason, I don't know what is.

 _Don't you cry no more…_

It's getting brighter, and the air is getting thicker, but I keep going, because Sam and music and sunrises and pie. Friggin pie. Nothing better in this world or the next. And goddamn it, I'm going to eat a lot more pie before I see Mom again. Mom knows. And she's watching me; that's enough to get me through a few more years, yeah?

Suddenly, there's nowhere else to run.

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 ***Cries happy tears***

 **Finally! I've been trying to write this chapter since I started the story. So, yay! I'll be posting a lot more frequently now, it being Christmas break. And fear not- Bobby will come. Soon.**


	10. Part Two: And Nothing But

Chapter Ten- Good Little Soldier- And Nothing But

 **I have the best Christmas present ever for you guys- Bobby. This is it. You're welcome. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm too lazy to reply to yall. But for the people who wanted John's ass kicked, I haven't decided his fate yet.**

 **Speaking of Supernatural, SATAN. AM I RIGHT?**

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"All right. Let's pull the plug."

The voice comes out of nowhere, like I've been blindfolded. There's more voices following the first, but I can't quite make them out. Maybe I _am_ blindfolded; it would certainly explain the pitch darkness. I try to open my eyes, but I'm too exhausted. I just came back from the dead, and I'm beginning to see why people don't do it very often; Jesus Christ, it's _hard._ Clouds and harps certainly seem like the better option right about now. How do I even have enough energy to _breathe?_

There's a heart monitor, cutting through the other noises, the beeps getting steadily slower, marking all the progress I'm losing. I'll be dead again all too soon. Why did I even bother? Mom was back there. Coming back to life is the worst mistake of my life. Death. What?

 _Damnit. Open your eyes,_ I tell myself, on the off chance that it'll make a difference. It doesn't. _Come on, Dean. You want to see Sam go to college, don't you? Whatever hospital you're in, it probably has pie. So open your friggin' eyes._

The darkness thins a little. The heart monitor picks up a little speed. And someone gasps.

 _Come on. Almost there._

Light comes flooding in, too cold and way too bright. I close my eyes again and groan, wondering what the legal limit of painkillers is. And what I'll have to do to get the doctors to double it. I guess I should've thought about how much getting killed hurts before I came back. Seriously; I think someone lit me on fire. That's what it feels like.

"Jesus…" someone says from across the room. "Kid, you were dead."

"I know," I rasp out. Talking makes it worse. Bad idea. I don't remember swallowing glass, but I must've.

The (doctor?) guy stares at me for a long time, as though I just turned into an alien, then snaps himself back into focus. "You got a name?"

"Dean Winchester."

"Okay, Dean. I'm Doctor Roberts. Is there someone we should call? Like, your parents or something?"

 _"Don't call my dad,"_ I hiss, fingers lacing around the sheets. God, if Dad found out I was alive… what would happen? He's probably already killed Sam. Unless he knew about me being alive. Unless he's waiting until he can do it in front of me… I'm having serious doubts about this whole life thing. "I… uh… I have an uncle. Bobby Singer."

"Do you know his phone number?"

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I don't hear the door open. I _do_ hear Sammy scream and run across the room.

"Dean!"

"Hey, kid," I manage, turning to look at him. Three days is way too long to go without seeing my little brother.

"Dad said you were dead," he says, sniffing a little.

"I was. Mom says hi."

He laughs a little, and I sigh. Of course he doesn't believe me. It probably wasn't even real, right? But something about that forest seemed real, more real than this hospital. Like this is me dreaming. And that was the only time I was ever awake. God, I want to believe it happened. I can't, though. Not right now. Because it would be the same as before. There's no point in trusting something that won't-can't- help you. Actually, I can't really trust anyone. Dad probably knows I'm alive. He's probably on his way here. And if I tell anybody, he's going to know about it. Jesus, I thought this was going to be easy?

Bobby and Dr. Roberts are standing outside in the hallway. No doubt there's a mile-long list of ways I'm broken, and none of them can be written off as accidents. I clench my fist and run my thumb over my fingers. How much do they know? Exactly how much can you tell about a person by looking at their scars? Suddenly, I realize Sam's talking and focus back on him. On anything besides the clipboard in the hallway that almost certainly has nine years of secrets mapped out for all the world to see.

"… and then he dropped me off at Uncle Bobby's, and he still wouldn't tell me what was going on and he said go to the kitchen so I did and when Bobby came in he was crying and I asked what happened? And he said you were _dead._ Why did Daddy tell him you were dead?"

"Because he thought I was."

"But at least he called 911 to make sure, right?"

That's another thing. How did anyone know where I was, and that I was dead/dying/ whatever? It wasn't Dad, so who called?

The door opens again, a lot louder than when Sam came in. Seriously, the kid has a gift. Bobby comes in first, red-eyed, and I look out the window. It's bad enough a total stranger saw. But _Bobby_? Dr. Roberts follows, a little too professionally. I wonder how often this happens; random teenagers who were murdered and committed suicide simultaneously showing up in the ER. "Hey, Dean," Bobby says. There's too much pity in this room. I need out.

They tell Sam to leave. It starts raining outside. I watch the drops pound against the window, tracing my finger over the starchy blanket. Bobby won't stop _looking_ at me. And after a lifetime of people's looks glancing off the surface, it's making me pretty damn uncomfortable.

"Dean…" Doctor Roberts starts, all business. As though he deals with zombies every day. That's what I am, isn't it? I was dead. And now I'm not. If that doesn't make me undead, I don't know what will. "You were injured pretty badly when we found you."

"Oh, really? I'd never know. Thanks for the insight."

"Dean, please. Now's not the time."

"Question. How did you know I was there? No one called."

"We got an anonymous phone call."

 _Dad?_ The thought comes to mind before I can stop it. And it makes me want to kill something. Because after _nine years,_ there's still some part of me that believes Dad would call the ambulance after he tried to kill his son. Sorry, not his son. His wind-up soldier who does everything he's asked without questioning it. It could have been Mom… _yeah. Okay. The dead parent who's never helped you,_ ever, _called 911 when she found out her baby was gonna die. You're not in a friggin movie, Dean. Wake up._

"The point is," Bobby speaks up, "we were wondering if you remembered anything. No matter how crazy."

"It's not like I was attacked by a werewolf or anything," I say with pointed sarcasm. Though maybe I could convince Bobby. Maybe I could come up with a lie in the next five minutes that would convince everyone, no matter what they believed or didn't believe, that my dad was innocent. Because that's what I'm really doing, isn't it? I'm not saving Sammy's life. I'm covering for my dick father.

My dick father, who will know if I tell these people what he did. Somehow, he's going to know. And somehow he'll kill Sam. In front of me. It took me nine years to figure it out- there's no way of escaping John Winchester. He's the shadow in the hallway that only looks like a monster when the lights are off. And no matter what you do to stop seeing it, you're going to know it's there and it's going to scare the crap out of you the entire night.

Unless.

The rain gets harder. I think it needs help; it's obviously trying to get into the hospital. _Someone go help the rain. It's fallen and it can't get up._ Bobby keeps looking at me like I'm a transparent time bomb. Which I very well might be; it's a good thing this goddamn glass box is going to act like a blast shield when I explode. Which I will do alone, in private, where no one will see my scars and no one will ask any questions I'll never be able to answer.

Unless.

I tell them.

Everything. Right here, right now, spill my guts as if they've been sliced open with the scalpel in the room down the hallway where people are paid to slice and spill guts. All the nights I spent crying, lying on my stomach because my back was made of glass that shattered every time I moved. Relive them all, now. Every single time he'd ever called me _worthless,_ up until he'd carved the obvious into my stomach. Tell all the stories. I've got a lot, for I've got a lot of scars. It'd be easy, three simple words to start an avalanche.

"You can tell us, Dean," Bobby whispers, and I realize I'm crying. Damn it. Now I'm a _crying_ time bomb. The only thing that could make this more _pathetic_ is if I had the dead mom card, too. Maybe I have cancer. I probably have cancer. That would be fan-friggin-tastic.

"No, I can't," I say, not taking my eyes off the injured rainstorm. It convinces myself about as much as it convinces the table in the corner; I could if I wanted to. If I was brave enough to suffer the consequences. But if there's one thing I've learned in the past week, bravery and Dad are two things that should never be mixed. "He said he'd kill Sam."

"If you told anyone?"

I nod.

"He's not going to know you told us."

 _Yes, he will._ But how do I know? Of course I'm going to break down and tell him if he asks me who knows, but he doesn't even know I'm alive. Yet. As far as I know. It's not like he's going to walk into the room at any second. And it's not like Sammy and I aren't protected. It's a hospital; there's a good chance they don't allow murdering.

"Dean, please. The police are conducting an investigation-"

I laugh, cutting off Doctor Roberts. _You couldn't track him with the FBI. Hell, sometimes he_ is _the FBI._ Dad will have a new name, job, license plate, and state by now. "They're not going to find him. I'm pretty sure he's wanted in every state except Hawaii, and he still hasn't been caught. Ever."

We've never been to Hawaii; Dad doesn't fly. Sam thinks it's because I'm scared of planes (my mom died on a ceiling. Obviously, there was leaving the ground involved. The same thing could happen to me.) But it's really because the man couldn't bear to leave his precious car unattended for long enough. If it wasn't for the Impala, we'd be flying everywhere. Simply _because_ I'm so scared of it. He loves that car more than me. By far.

And do I really want to keep a man like that innocent?

Mom asked what I wanted. And I'm not sure about a lot of things, but I do know this: I want to be okay. Not happy, that's too much to ask, but okay. Not lying in a hospital bed with people pitying me because I was murdered/ killed myself four days ago. Not sitting in a motel room waiting for my dad to come home drunk and wondering if this, _this_ would be the night Sammy woke up and saw something.

Not stuck in a glass box, with the walls getting closer and the bottom filling up with blood. A coffin only I can see.

Here's what I want; the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, right now, but something close to it.

"You want a name?" I whisper, adrenaline rushing into my veins.

"Do you have one?" Doctor Roberts asks. _Revenge, you bastard,_ I think.

"John Winchester."

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 **Okay. Do this with me. Everyone go to the nearest thing that plays music, and blast Light 'Em Up as loud as possible. Because that's what I'm doing and seriously it's making everything that much better.**

 **Please review! Only 22 days till the new episode!**


	11. Part Two: Raining and Pouring

Chapter Eleven- Good Little Soldier- It's Raining, It's Pouring…

 **GUYS! GUESS WHAT! YOU GET TWO CHAPTERS!**

 **Thank you all so much for supporting me and waiting! I took the test at 3 today, and I don't know what my results are yet, but I think I did pretty well. Your reviews are a huge confidence booster- I'm glad you all think so highly of my writing! So, as a huge thanks, here's double the child abuse fic to make up for lost time.** **J**

 **Trigger Warning: mentions of rape/ child abuse (metaphors in nightmares only), disturbing imagery**

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"Son of a bitch," Bobby says calmly. Then he stands up and kicks his chair over, fury written over every inch of him. I flinch a little too hard, enough for him to notice. Which makes him angrier. "I'll KILL HIM!"

Doctor Roberts sighs and looks down at his clipboard. "Sir, if you could please calm down, there's something-"

"Calm down? CALM DOWN? This is as calm as I'm getting. That bastard… I can't believe… how long?" Bobby finally decides on a sentence and looks over at me. Again, right _at_ me. Straight through the cracks in my glass box. I clench my fists tighter.

"Since Mom," I mumble, watching the rain.

"Son of a bitch…"

"Mister Singer," the doctor says pointedly. "Would you please come with me?"

Bobby sighs and follows Doctor Roberts out the door, leaving me alone to let the full weight of what I've done sink in. And it weighs a lot; feels like someone's lowering an anchor on my chest. The doctors need to let the rain in; I think it's gonna die soon. The sky's clearing up, and then the sun's going to come out and kill everything.

Jesus Christ, I _told_ them.

 _I told them about Dad._ There's no turning back now. And if he finds out and kills Sam, it'll be all my fault. He will find out, eventually; Bobby's more than likely going to call every hunter he knows. Things are gonna be a lot different now, aren't they? _Different doesn't mean better,_ I remind myself, glancing out at the hallway. Bobby's never been anything but nice, but he knew Dad. He was _friends_ with Dad. And friends of John Winchester aren't the kind of people who treat John Winchester's kids right. I should trust him. But I haven't trusted someone since I was four and thought my dad was a superhero. I stopped putting faith in anyone living nine years ago.

The rain stopped. No one ever tried to help it. I decide that falling asleep is worth the risk of Dad coming back while I'm out and close my eyes.

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 **A/N: IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO DISTURBING IMAGERY, SKIP THE NEXT SECTION. I'M SERIOUS. SKIP IT.**

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 _"Dean…"_

 _I turn towards the sound of the voice, Mom's voice, but it's too dark to see anything. She calls again; it sounds like she's hurt._

 _"Mom?"_

 _"Dean…"_

 _I take a step forward and run into a wall. The glass is so transparent it seems like the air decided it doesn't want me to move. It's the box again; I don't even bother checking the other four walls. Mom falls out of the darkness, clutching her side. God, there's blood everywhere. And it's getting under the bottom of the box. I know it's not going to do any good, but I keep banging on the glass._

 _"MOM!"_

 _She smiles at me and bursts into flames. I scream again, heart pounding and breaking and splintering, and take a step backwards into the box. The fire dies down a little, leaving Dad standing in Mom's place. Very much alive. He looks at me and smiles. I flinch; it's the smile he had when he tried to kill me. The exact same one._

 _A hand clamps down on my shoulder. I can't see who- or what- it's attached to, it's too dark, but now there's another hand covering my eyes, and then another grabbing my wrist, and now they're everywhere._ Everywhere, _and I can't move, or anything, and they're_ everywhere everywhere everywhere. _I scream again, through the hands over my mouth, but no one hears me. Of course no one hears me; I'm still in my box. A coffin full of hands that only I can see. Every time I move the hands get tighter, until I can hardly breathe. Not that I could breathe to begin with-_

 _And then they go away. Slowly, far too slowly, fingers tracing over me like a starving child on his last bite of food. Dad's standing there, blood dripping from the knife in his hand._

 _"Let's show everyone what you really are," he whispers, his voice too soft, running a finger over the scars on my stomach. "No one's going to see it here." now his voice is too loud. Dad shoves me against the wall of the box and grabs my wrist, yanking it out at a strange angle that hurts but doesn't break._

 _W.O.R.T.H.L.E.S.S._

 _And then on my other wrist._

 _P.A.T.H.E.T.I.C._

 _And then he's gone, leaving the glass box filling up with blood. My blood, for once. I look up at the ceiling; you can see the stars through it. They form a picture of Mom, locked up by the angels. Moments after I see it clouds come and cover them- her- up. It starts to rain. And then the rain starts to scream, in Sammy's voice. It's my fault, it's all my fault; I'm killing the rain. No matter how hard I bang on the glass, I can't help it._

 _The box is gone, but the hands are back and they're shouting at me. I don't know what I did this time. So I scream again and find that fighting works with these ones, that I can get free if I pull hard enough. I break away and rush to stand up, to run away, but Dad comes back and stabs me, over and over and everywhere. Mom is nowhere to be found, no matter how much I shout her name._

 _Somebody's shouting my name. I can't tell who; they're too far away and there's still a pair of hands on my shoulders. Smaller than the others. I look down; they're Sam's hands._

 _Sam._

 _"Dean?"_

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 **A/N: It should be okay from here on out. That was very no just to write. Eesh. Enjoy the rest of the chapter.**

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"Dean!"

I look up and stare at Sam's tear-streaked face and turn all my energy to not looking away. Sam. He's here, he's alive, and I'm okay. Kind of. I think I'm on fire. But I'm okay, besides the fire. Dad's not here yet. Is Dad coming? He promised he would, I ever did it. Wait- ever did what? What did I do? There's beeping coming from somewhere, and it keeps getting faster. I take a deep breath; I think everything underneath my ribcage moved somewhere else. There's nothing but empty space in there.

"Sammy." I finally manage to get my vocal chords working. Where am I? And what the _hell_ did I do?

He wraps his arms around me, and I bury my face in his hair because if I don't then I'll have to see what's behind him. And I really don't want to right now. "It was just a dream," he whispers. It takes me a minute to turn the string of words into a sentence, and even longer to process it.

 _It was just a dream._

There's other voices in the room. I don't know who they are. Maybe there's no one there; maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I'm just imagining this whole thing, and I'll wake up in a motel room with Sam and Dad and-

 _I told them. That's what I did. I told them._

 _"Dean, I swear to god, I'm going to kill the six-year-old brat behind that door if you tell anyone. I swear. I will, if you do."_

The beeping gets louder, and faster, and the fire gets hotter. I pull away from Sam, and start to get up and run away. I need to get out of here, wherever _here_ is, and find Dad, and make up an excuse and lie until the things I've lied about are true and I need to talk to Mom because she'll understand. She knows what happened, and even though the angels won't let her come back with me I can at least _say something to her_ or ask her to take me back because this was all a huge mistake and _someone's trying to hold me back. There's more hands there's hands everywhere and screaming isn't helping all that much goddamnit let me out let me go see Mom!_

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"Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital. I'm not an idiot."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

 _No,_ I think. I have no idea what happened. I'm told I broke someone's nose. And I ripped almost all my stitches. And I was insane. Not much else, though. Something with Mom. And rain. I told them about Dad, I can remember that pretty clearly. God, the past week has just been full of moronic decisions involving me and Dad, hasn't it? Saying no to him. Coming back to the world he lives in. Telling people about him. I glance up at Dr. Roberts and realize it's been at least five minutes since I said anything. "You can't tell him I'm alive," I mumble.

"Dean, we're not going to tell him anything. We don't have any way to contact him."

"Keep it that way." I glance towards the door, waiting for it to open. For Dad to walk in and… _do something._ I don't know. I've been on edge since the moment I came back to life. Well, more on edge than usual.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Which _it_?"

"Your father."

"No," I practically shout. I hate this. Being broken. There's no way to get out of this room. By the looks of it, there's no way to get the doctor out of this room, either.

"There's just a few questions we have for-"

"I said _no,_ I'm not going to answer any questions, and I think we're done."

He looks at me. I stare at my hands. _Great job, Winchester. You've gone and made him mad. Watch what happens next._

"Okay," Doctor Roberts says. Then he stands up and walks to the door. "Your brother's pretty eager to see you."

That was the most anticlimactic thing that's happened since I woke up. And I don't trust it. I've said it before, I don't trust anything, but this was too… normal.

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"Hey, Sam," I say with the best smile I can manage.

"Hi."

Fantastic. Now my brother thinks I'm a time bomb, too. "I'm okay," I tell him, even though I hate lying. He glances out the window, then back at his shoes.

"Okay. You scared me, though."

"I know. I'm sorry." _And I'm sorry for never telling you, and for still not telling you, and for letting you think that Dad and hunting and any of that is a good idea ever._

"Bobby said we're gonna stay with him for a while," he says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I smile. "That's great." _Great, until Dad finds out I'm there and comes to get me. Bobby might be planning on it._

"He says I'll get my own room."

"Wow. Awesome. Did he say anything about when Dad's going to come back?"

"When I asked him he got mad and said 'I hope never.' Did Bobby and Dad have a fight about something?"

"Um, yeah. Yeah, they had a big fight. And now Dad won't even call Bobby."

Sam looks down again and sighs. I could tell him the truth. Right now. But he's already scared enough after whatever happened with the nightmare/panic attack/I-broke-a-guy's-nose-because-I-thought-he-was-one-of-Dad's- _friends._ And that's the last thing I want. So instead I let him talk about the book he's reading and I churn out answers to all of his questions because it's a hell of a lot easier than thinking.

Is staying at Bobby's even a good idea? It makes the most sense. But Dad knows how to get there from any city in the country. And it's the first place he's going to look. If it were up to me, I'd take Sam and run. To Mexico. How do I even know I can trust Bobby? He's helped Dad out more times than I can count. He's the reason Dad met so many of his _friends._ Not that he's been anything but okay to me… for now. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. And I don't think I'm ever going to relax.

Why would he even want to let us stay with him? Sam, I get. He's the poster child of good children. But me? I can't even _sleep_ without hurting someone anymore. I talk to my dead mom. I break everything I touch. I couldn't start hunting again for at least a month. I could start earlier, but he's definitely not going to let me. God, I shouldn't have told them. Now I'm the poor little kid whose dad tried to kill him. The pathetic abused kid with nowhere else to go. And that's not who I want to be, even if it's what I am.

Bobby walks in and smiles at me like you smile at a dying baby. I stare at the clock and start counting the seconds of tense silence that follow. _One. Two. Three._

Sam gets up and leaves.

 _Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

"So, did Sammy tell you?" he finally asks.

"About moving in with you? Yeah, he did. But I don't know-"

Bobby sighs. "Kid, there's no way in hell I'm letting you go back to John."

"That's not what I meant."

"Where else could you go? Ellen's? That's five states away, Dean."

"I know. I just… he knows where you live." It sounds even more scared out loud. And it was pretty damn paranoid in my head.

"He sets one foot on my property and he dies. Especially if you're there," he says emphatically, glaring at the armrest of his chair.

"How did you not know?" I ask, the words flying out of me before I can even process them. "I mean, I thought it was obvious. I stayed up every night wondering if anyone had put two and two together. And we're at your house every other weekend. How did you not know?"

Another sigh from Bobby. "I wondered."

"And you didn't say anything?" _This is why you shouldn't trust him._

"No." He stands up and walks slowly towards the door. "No, I didn't."

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The ride home from the hospital is almost silent. After almost three weeks of lying in a bed it's nice to be moving. In a direction that isn't down a spiral of crazy and claustrophobia. And I'm fine with the silence; it's better than the constant noise of people and heart monitors. Even though we haven't seen another car on the road for miles, I can't help but twist around in my seat and scan the empty road behind us, a long slippery ribbon someone dropped over the countryside. How long would it take for Dad to find out I told someone? And how long would it take for him to catch up? I can't shake the cold-fingers-on-my-spine feeling that someone's watching me, and Sammy's asleep in the backseat.

"Calm down, Dean. He doesn't know," says Bobby when he sees what I'm doing.

"Yeah. Okay." I turn back to the front, moving my shoulders around to see if the sensation goes away. It doesn't. And neither does the flight-or-fight feeling that's been in my chest since I woke up from the nightmare thing almost a week ago.

"He's not going to find you. I'm not going to let that happen."

 _We'll see,_ I think.

"You trust me, don't you?" he asks.

I glance at him, then at Sam in the backseat, and spend the next half hour staring intently at the rearview mirror.

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	12. Part Two: Trust Fall

Good Little Soldier- Chapter Twelve- Trust Fall

 **Oh, by the way- a lot of people liked when I had a FOB song at the end of a chapter. Would you want me to make a playlist? I've done it for a few other fics for author inspo.**

 **Trigger warnings: feels. Awkward conversations. Flashbacks. This might be the most vanilla chapter I've written.**

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There is no way in hell I am making it up these stairs.

They're Mount Everest. They're the Tokyo tower. They're… the tallest, steepest, most exhausting thing you can possibly think of. Especially if you were murdered/ killed yourself three weeks ago. So, instead, I collapse on the nearest couch and bury my face in a pillow. Bobby's house smells good; like books and whiskey and spray paint which seems like a horrible combination. It's really not. Maybe because it's the closest thing I've had to somewhere safe for the past ten years.

Sam doesn't even bother taking his shoes off. The kid's more exhausted than the time he snuck out to go to a midnight premiere for something. He came home at four am on a school night and literally passed out on the floor. Of course, this was all my fault. So was him getting sent to the principal's office for falling asleep in class the next day. Everything is my fault. A couple times a year, when Dad is drunk enough, even Mom's death is my fault.

 _"THIS. Is all your fault," he yells, fist connecting painfully with my stomach. "We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. That spirit wouldn't have killed that librarian if you learned how to fire a goddamn gun. And_ she _would still be here if you hadn't screwed up."_

 _"What?" I ask, breathing heavily. "What did I do?"_

 _He picks me up by my shirt collar and throws me onto the nearest bed. I start to scream, but he clamps a hand over my mouth. Then he leans in close, too close, with breath like melting copper. "You killed her, didn't you? You killed Mary. It's all your fault, you little bitch."_

"Dean? Earth to Dean?"

I jerk my head off the pillow and look at the source of the voice. Bobby. Not Dad. Thank god. He looks at me quizzically and sits down in the chair across from me. "You're a deep sleeper when you want to be, kid. I've been calling your name for the past five minutes."

"You have? I wasn't… you have?"

"Yeah."

I'm going crazy. I broke a guy's nose at the hospital, I keep reliving things that haven't happened since I was nine, when I'm awake, I think everyone and everything is John coming for me and Sammy. I'm insane. Straightjacket insane. And the hours of awkward silence that keep happening between me and Bobby aren't helping.

"So…" he says after about ten weeks of me staring out the window pretending his eyes aren't boring into my soul. "You wanna talk about it?"

"About what?"

He glares at me. My heart skips a beat. I ask too many questions. Always have. "Well, Dean, when a boy and a girl _really_ like each other-"

I laugh, relief washing through me. "I think I'm pretty clear on that, Singer."

"Okay, okay. It's just... you wouldn't talk to the therapist at the hospital, and I was wondering if now that you're out, maybe you could… talk."

 _You know it's him. That's dangerous enough._ I've never had an angry Bobby Singer on my ass, personally, but I've been a bystander. Things break. Literal shots are fired. And that's when he's slightly pissed. "Nope," I say, trying to repair the cracks in my walls that he keeps making. I reach for my necklace. It's lying on the forest floor, or in an evidence bag at a police station. So that's everything from before, gone. Except Sam.

"Dean. Come on."

"You know what? Fine. Let's rent _Pretty in Pink,_ braid Sam's hair, I'll bake some cookies."

Bobby makes an exasperated noise. "If you could just tell the truth."

"We can sit in a circle, play truth or dare, and I'll tell everyone how my own father tried to kill me. Sounds like a fun night."

"I just want to help."

" _You had ten years to help,"_ I hiss. I didn't know I was this close to crying. Am I always this close to crying? Have I turned into one of those people who just turns on the waterworks at the drop of a hat? I've cried more in the past three weeks than I have in the past three years. "You had ten years to help. And you said you thought something was happening, and you didn't do a damn thing to stop it. So no, I'm not going to _talk_ to you, I'm not going to talk to anyone, and I would run out that door and leave if I could but I'm too tired. You want the truth? I don't trust you. I don't trust a single friggin' person on this planet except Sam. And maybe that's because the one person I thought could help me could have helped me a hell of a lot sooner, and he didn't. Would you care to tell me why that is?"

I also didn't know I could bring Bobby Singer this close to tears. Did I pick up a cursed object at the hospital? I look at the bracelet on my wrist. Was one of the nurses a witch? I'm going to burn everything I got from that place. Bobby's actually about to cry. Hunters across America will mark this day in their crappy journals. Maybe it'll become a national holiday. Maybe my being an asshole will get kids a day off school. Not that I go to school in the first place.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he says softly.

"Don't apologize," I reply gruffly. That sounds even worse. _I don't deserve it,_ I add in my head, because if I said it out loud it would push him over the edge. "Just let me sleep."

"Yeah," he breathes.

I wait until I hear a door close somewhere upstairs before I start talking.

"Mom? I know you're up there. I made it, if you can hear me. So, thanks. And we're out of the woods. Sort of. Like, halfway." I let out a shaky breath. "Or not really. I told some people about Dad… and he's going to find out. I know it. So, if you can hear me… can you? That was a stupid question. You're not going to answer. Sorry. Jesus, you must feel terrible when I ask you to answer, and you can't. Sorry. But, if- _when_ Dad finds out, he's going to try and kill Sammy. And if- _when_ he does, I just… either save him or take me back. Because he's all I've got, and-" god, now I'm sobbing. Freaking cursed bracelet. I swear, that's what it is "- and if there's one question I never want answered it's what life would be like without him. So, when John finds us- just- don't let him die. Or kill me. I don't give a damn." I pull the blanket over my head and close my eyes, because saying _amen_ is for church and I hate church and honestly, I'm too drained to say goodnight.

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Do you ever wake up, and it feels like someone filled your bones with lead overnight? Because that's the most accurate description for how I've felt every morning for the past month. Groaning, I drag myself into the kitchen and muster up enough energy to smile at Sam and Bobby. Somehow.

"Morning, sleeping beauty. You're just in time for lunch."

"What time is it?"

"Twelve-thirty," Sam says proudly. "We went shopping." He tosses a bag in my direction. "Those are clothes. Since all our other ones are with Dad."

I stare at the plastic bag in my hand. Dad used to do this, when I was really little. Bribe me into letting him push me around. Then we both realized there was no way an eight-year-old boy who never stayed in town longer than a month could do anything for himself, and the presents stopped coming. How was this any different? _Hey, Dean. Sorry I let John treat you like dirt for your entire life. Here's a t-shirt to make up for it._

"Thanks," I mutter. Maybe he's just being nice. Maybe it's an apology.

"Why don't you go put them upstairs?" Bobby asks. "You're not going to sleep on the couch forever."

I look up at him with half-closed eyes. "Yeah. Sure. What's for…lunch?"

He holds up a greasy paper bag. "Burgers."

"Breakfast of champions," I mutter, turning towards the stairs.

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There's three bedrooms. But the one Sam stayed in last night (if I call it _Sam's room_ then we're staying here for a long time. Which we're not) has two beds. So I throw my still-slightly-bloodstained jacket on the bed that isn't a complete mess and start 'unpacking'. Two flannels. Three tees. A pair of jeans. Nothing I wasn't already wearing. I dump it all into the next open drawer in the dresser and throw the bag in the trash.

It lands way more heavily than a plastic bag is supposed to. And I am Dean Winchester, the guy who doesn't even trust plastic bags, so I walk over and pick it up. There's something inside, under the receipt. I take it out, and spend the next ten minutes sitting by a trash can staring at a necklace.

Because it's _my_ necklace.

The necklace that Sam gave to me right before his first fight with Dad. The one Dad almost killed me for having. I thought no one knew how much I actually cared about it. Bobby did, though. And if this is an apology gift, if this is the carrot dangling in front of me to keep me from leaving, then it just might work for a while. I smile a little and walk downstairs as I slip it over my head.

The burgers certainly don't hurt, either.

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 **Fingers crossed I did good on my test!**


	13. Part Two: Leftovers

Chapter Thirteen- Good Little Soldier- Leftovers

 **Thank you all so much for reading this. I really never thought people would want to read this, but it's gone way further than I thought it would. And I know it's no Twist and Shout, but it's gotten a lot of positive feedback and I just want to say thanks for being sadistic enough to like this story. You guys write super nice reviews, too. Lots and lots of thanks. And now, onto the Dean abuse.**

 **Trigger warning: PTSD, mentions of child abuse, mentions of rape/sexual abuse, self harm please just skip the chapter if you're sensitive to any of those things or actually find some Destiel fluff instead**

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I wake up the next morning, halfway sit up in bed, and immediately lay back down and fall back asleep for three more hours. How I can still need more hours after doing nothing _but_ sleep for what feels like the past year, I don't know, but it feels like my head is filled with really tired jello. And it's not like I have anything better to do; Bobby refuses to let me hunt, even though there have been at least three salt and burns within a ten mile radius that would take less than a day to clean up, and I don't think I'm going back to school anytime soon. What with me not being able to stay awake for longer than five damn minutes. And being a nervous wreck.

That feeling you get when you miss a step on a staircase? Or those weird dreams where you're falling, and you jolt awake three seconds later? That's how I feel, like, ninety percent of the time since I stopped being dead. Like my heart keeps skipping a beat, but then it never picks the rhythm back up. There's always someone watching me. There's always something after me, and it's making me insane.

When I look at the clock again, it's eleven am. I groan, remembering my promise to start getting up before noon, and push myself up onto my shoulders. Sam's gone, probably downstairs or something, _or maybe Dad found him,_ and I'm downstairs in less than five seconds.

"Morning, Dean," Sammy says from the couch, buried in a book.

"Thank god," I mumble, and sit down next to him. "Where's Bobby?"

"He went out on a case with someone. It's close. They'll be back in a few hours." He lapses into silence again, and I don't ask anything else. I should probably eat something, but I've felt nauseous since last night and it's better if there's nothing in my stomach. So instead I just lean my head back and stare out the window, trying not to fall back asleep. After a few minutes, Sam closes his book and leans his head on my shoulder. "Dean? Why are Bobby and Dad so mad at each other?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I asked if Dad was gonna come get us this morning, and Bobby just glared and said that he really hoped not. Why wouldn't Dad come get us? And why wouldn't Bobby want him to?"

I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair. If I tell Sam the real reason, it'll ruin the way he sees his dad. John is still the kid's parent; that was made very clear to me. _You're not his dad,_ he'd say when I was the one who had to take care of sick Sam. _I'm his dad,_ he'd say when I was the one who had to make us dinner every night. _Stop trying to do my job,_ he'd shout when I was the one who had to sign all of Sam's permission slips for school because he was never home or always said we'd be out of town before anything happened. "Dad might not be coming for a while," I say carefully. "He's… got a lead on the thing that killed Mom. And he didn't want us to get hurt, so he sent us to Bobby's."

"But why are they fighting?"

"Dad thinks it's Bobby's fault I was in a coma. And Bobby thinks it's Dad's fault."

"Whose fault was it?"

"Mine," I say automatically. "I should've been more ready. But that's not the point. The point is, we're going to be living with Bobby for a few months. Okay?"

"Yeah. I like it here."

I smile and pretend I didn't just tell my little brother the only lie I've ever told him that didn't involve Dad telling me to. It's taken me this long to realize that we're staying here indefinitely. To get out of the constant few weeks/days per place schedule I've been on my whole life. And I wish I could say it's relaxing, knowing we're not here because it's haunted and knowing we're going to be around for long enough to learn street names, but it's not. Because John knows where we are. And we're basically stuck here until he finds us or the cops find him (doubtful).

After a few more minutes I get up and raid the kitchen to find stuff for lunch. The fridge has more food in it than any other fridge in a place I have actually lived in since I was four years old. Which is pretty damn nice after so many years of nothing but cereal three times a day. Sam finds a book and starts reading. I have a more-than-minor panic attack when one of the dozen phones on the wall rings. It's someone calling the FBI supervisor, and I doubt they'd take a fourteen-year-old kid's word that whoever it is are legit FBI people, so I don't bother.

I check the stack of local newspapers by the door, trying to find anything Bobby might have missed, but every mysterious death or sign of anything is circled and crossed off. Plus there's a sticky note on top with the words _don't you dare, Dean_ written on it. So I end up watching tv with Sam until I fall asleep again. It's becoming a talent.

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It's almost four pm when Bobby walks in through the back door. I've been awake for a while now, but all I've done is wander aimlessly around the house and read half a book about werewolves. I walk into the kitchen, tons of questions about the hunt going through my head, the main one being _why couldn't I come with you,_ but then I see who Bobby's hunting buddy is. And the questions kind of deflate in terror.

It's Martin.

His eyes lock with mine, with the same look that he always has when he sees me, the one that scares the crap out of me, and I kind of freeze in place. Both of them are trying to talk to me, and all I'm hearing is white noise and all I'm seeing is white and this is what lung cancer patients feel like all the time because I can't breathe. Grateful that I still have basic control over my legs, I turn around and slowly walk out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and halfway down the hallway before it's not actually a hallway anymore it's a bedroom and it's not 4 pm it's nighttime and _when did I start sitting down I was standing wait is that Dad oh god it's Dad._

"Dean!" someone shouts. I look up and stare at a staircase and-

 _"Dean!" Dad shouts, laughing. "Get over here."_

 _I shake my head and back into the corner, trying to melt through the wall. It almost works because I'm a pretty skinny nine-year-old, but Martin drags me back into the room by the collar of my t-shirt. "Where're_ you _going?" he slurs. "Fun's only just starting." He pushes me towards my dad, who grabs my wrist and slams me against a wall so hard my ears start ringing. Then he smiles, lacing his fingers through my hair and leaning in close enough for me to count the veins in his bloodshot eyes. "C'mon, Dean, don't be like this. Think about your brother. You wouldn't want anything to happen to him, would you?" he exhales. The words spill out of him without any space between them. And it's dangerous, standing up to him when he's like this. So I close my eyes and shake my head no. "Good," he breathes, hand slipping down my torso and under my jeans._

"Let go of him," I hear and there's more than one person in front of me now. I try and see past their shoulders-

 _I strain to look over Dad's shoulder. Martin has a camera. "_ Son of a bitch," _I whisper, and bolt out from under Dad, racing towards the door. Martin's caught up with me in less than a second, pushing me into the floor. "Hasn't anyone taught you how to respect your elders?" he says, straddling my chest._

 _"G-get off of me," I try to scream. It comes out as more of a mouse whisper. He stands up, but only to push me back towards Dad, who's looking at me in a way that makes me want to disappear._

Now I'm living in two worlds at once, and faces and words keep overlapping.

 _"Dean, hey, stay with me," Martin says in Bobby's voice._

"Smile for the camera, Dean," Bobby says in Martin's voice.

 _Sam grabs my hand, and I hold onto it for my life, trying to anchor myself somewhere._ Eventually, it works. And I'm at Bobby's house. And it's daytime. And it's not six years ago. I sit on the floor of the upstairs hallway, shaking and gasping like I've just been pulled out of the ocean. I've had flashbacks before, but this is a whole new level of bad. Especially since it was a five-second glance at someone that set me off.

"Dean?" Bobby asks cautiously, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You back?"

I nod. If I start talking, I don't think I'll _stop_ talking and that would be possibly one of the worst things ever. Sam's still holding my hand, and it dawns on me that I'm this close to breaking his fingers, but he doesn't say anything and I don't loosen my grip.

"What the hell, kid?" Bobby's saying. "I'd say it looks like you've seen a ghost, but I've seen you around ghosts and they don't scare you half this much."

"Everything okay up there?" Martin calls from the base of the stairs.

There's at least fifty more nights just like that one, all threatening to take over. I push myself against the wall and stare with laser focus at a spot on the wall opposite. "It's okay," Sam says softly, wrapping his free arm around me. I look down at him and smile a little; he doesn't even know what's going on.

"It's Martin," I manage to whisper, moving further into Sam's arms. Bobby's expression changes from concerned to infuriated in less than a fraction of a second as he stands and walks down the stairs. There's a long moment of silence. Then Bobby's voice breaks it. "Get the hell out of my house," he says, voice resonating like the first waves of an earthquake.

"What about the nest?"

"You better pray they get to you before I do. Now I'll ask it once; what did you do to that kid upstairs?"

"Dean? Nothing his father didn't approve of, if that's what you mean."

" _Get. Out."_

"Dean?" Sammy whispers. "What's that supposed to mean…"

"Nothing. It's nothing," I say, praying to god he believes me. Thankfully, it seems like he does. After a few minutes, a door slams. After a minute more, Bobby reappears. Sam slowly untangles himself from me and mumbles something about a glass of water before disappearing. Now I'm cold. _Really_ cold, I just realized, and my hands are still shaking.

"What was that?" he asks.

"I…"

"Dean," Bobby says. It comes out as a statement, even though I'm fairly sure it was meant to be a question.

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm still pretty jumpy, I guess, since we left Dad, and then you showed up with Martin, and he was _looking_ at me, and it kind of just… flipped a switch."

"What did he do?"

"Nothi- I can't." I'm crying. Jesus christ, I just had a panic attack/flashback because I glanced at someone for a few seconds, and now I'm sitting in a hallway crying and saying I can't talk about anything. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. I'm pathetic, and weak, and tired, and-

I push myself up and walk to the bathroom, bracing my hand against the wall. Bobby doesn't try and follow me, thank god. I triple-check to make sure the door is locked, paranoid as I am, and then stare at myself in the mirror for a really long time. And then I take off my shirt and stare at myself for an even longer time.

I'd kind of hoped I'd imagined the scars. But they're there, and they're real, and they're uglier than I am. Shivering a little, I trace my finger over the _W_ under my ribs.

And then it hits me.

I guess I'd kind of acknowledged it when we first left the hospital, but not like how I'm seeing it now. This huge, Great Wall of China-sized realization that crashes down on me with twice as much weight. And staring in the mirror, with that goddamn _word_ written across my stomach, that's just making it worse. Because those scars might fade, but they won't disappear. And panic attacks might stop being a daily occurrence, but they won't go away altogether. And maybe, someday, I'm going to stop hating myself, I'm going to stop telling myself all the same crap _he_ told me for an entire decade of my life, but that decade still happened.

No matter what I do, nothing's going to go away.

I glance back at the door, making sure it's locked again, and sob. I left Mom for this? Really? I gave up an awesome afterlife with my mom in heaven where Dad was definitely never going to be so that I could sit in the bathroom and cry because I'm going insane? What was dead me thinking?

Nothing's going to go away.

Every nightmare I lived in, everything he said and did to me, every night of hell I went through, it's going to be here forever. Not just in the scars they gave me, and not just in the dramatic flashbacks I'm now prone to, but in the constant fear I'm in that I just now realized isn't going away. Ever. And I can't tell Sam, because he'd lose a dad, and I can't tell Bobby, because he'd lose his mind, and I can't tell Mom because she's dead and _what the hell is she going to do about it?_

I don't even really think about it. I'm so busy thinking about this endless _thing_ in front of me that isn't really life because life involves living and I don't know how to do anything more than survive. My autopilot kind of takes over, and I sit back and panic and occasionally make completely objective statements about what I'm doing. Except I'm not doing it. They're third-person observations.

 _Oh, look. He found the razors._

 _You're never really going to leave that room in Martin's house, you know. You're going to sit there forever and it's going to kill you someday._

 _Now he's crying again. How like him._

 _You wasted all that energy trying to bring yourself back to life and what did it change? It's not like someone flipped the_ happy, normal person/screwed-up little bitch _switch the second you woke up from that coma. That switch doesn't exist. And if it does, it's permanently stuck on the_ screwed-up little bitch _setting._

 _He said_ shut up _to me._

 _I mean, honestly, Dean. You might as well still be driving around with Dad. Because nothing's changed. You're still pathetic. And useless. And weak. You can't even save your own brother. You need Bobby to protect him from his own father now. Freaking failure._

 _And now he's-_

The pain pulls me back into focus. Well, not really focus. But definitely less out-of-body, panicky, and out-of-control. It feels better/worse than I thought it would. It doesn't hurt so much as buzz, which is really nice but I was expecting actual pain. Breathing shallow, I trace the razor along the scars on my stomach, reopening them along with every thought I've ever had about what a terrible excuse for a human being I am.

 _W._

 _O._

 _R._

 _T._

 _H._

 _L._

 _E._

 _S._

 _S._

I lay on the bathroom floor until the bleeding stops. They weren't very deep. Bobby starts shouting about dinner, and I drag myself up and reach for my tee. I feel better. Well, okay, not better. But less bad than I felt before. Closer to better than I was before. I walk downstairs, hyperfocused and calm.

"Why did Daddy's friend scare you so much?" Sam asks.

"Have you seen his face? It's like the end of _Indiana Jones."_ I mime my face melting off. He laughs. I smile.

Sammy is completely oblivious to the difference between fake and real smiles.

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 **Okay I really didn't think that was going to happen but then it's midnight and oh hey, self-harm is now in my ever-growing list of trigger warnings.**

 **For everyone wanting John's ass kicked… we'll see. I honestly haven't decided if he'll come back yet. I'm trying to focus less on his whereabouts and more on Dean's recovery process (the recovery process apparently involves the opposite of recovery), but it'd be interesting to see him show up at Bobby's door sometime in the future. If you guys have opinions, let me know.**

 **Oh yeah and my birthday was last Thursday! So I'm 14 now. All my friends got me was food, books, and hot topic stuff so yay** **J**


	14. Part Two: Sam Murders All the Cats

Chapter Fourteen- Good Little Soldier- Sam Murders All the Cats

 **I GOT ACCEPTED INTO THE PROGRAM THINGY AT SCHOOL!**

 **I just got the letter today, and I'm starting this summer and I'm really, really happy. Oh, and I also had to explain fanfiction to my grandparents, which was… interesting.**

 **babyreaper : I hate Sam still loving John, too. But it wouldn't make sense for him to just start randomly hating his dad. You won't have to worry about that much longer, though. *grins evilly* *laughs maniacally***

 **Random question- who's everyone's favorite Breakfast Club character? I've been watching it nonstop for the past month, and honestly every time I see it I fall more and more in love with Bender.**

 **Trigger warning: mentions of self harm, mentions of child abuse. This chapter is pretty short and not very feels because the next one… all the triggers. All the feels. *fades into the distance still laughing like a Disney villain***

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They're right when they say that once you start cutting, you can't really stop.

Because it feels pretty damn good. That buzzing feeling. That anxious feeling that follows me everywhere goes away for a while, and I can actually calm down for once. At first I just traced over my old scars, over and over, but then one night I started making my own. Luckily all the shirts Bobby got me are long-sleeved.

I'm not even scared anymore. Just numb. And it's probably a bad thing, but it's better than what I was before.

Sam started going to school again. It's kind of an unspoken decision that until I can stop collapsing into flashbacks on a regular basis, I'm not even going to enroll. And it doesn't look like I'll be able to stop anytime soon. I woke up Sam and Bobby last night with screaming. And the flashbacks. _Goddamnit_ the flashbacks.

There are some things you shouldn't have to relive. And being suddenly thrust back into those things with almost no warning beforehand makes them almost worse. And then having to come back into the present after experiencing all that all over again, and having to deal with people wanting to talk about what happened, that's just the icing on the cake. No. I don't want to tell you, Bobby. I just went through hell. Again. Now is not the time for a Dr. Phil session. Now is the time for me to go to sleep and never wake up.

I know Bobby's been talking to someone from the hospital since I got out. It's probably the therapist I didn't talk to. And last night I know he was on a website about PTSD because it was still there this morning. Which is more than a little weird to me.

It's not that I don't want him to care about me. But maybe I don't deserve it. My father didn't give a rat's ass about me, so why should someone who isn't even related to me? I've lived with him for, what, three weeks? It took Dad four and a half years to start hating me, and I'm just hoping it doesn't take Bobby as long. Because I'm not going to spend four and a half years waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I've been reading the same page of a book for the last half hour. I still don't know what it says.

Sam comes home from school and immediately gives me a bear hug that feels like being hugged by a very small teddy bear because his head barely reaches my chest. "Hi, Dean," he says into my stomach. The sound of the bus driving away is a little too close to the sound of a Chevy Impala. I flinch. He pulls away. And now he thinks it's his fault, _great going, Winchester._

"Hey, kid. How was school?"

"Boring." Sam jumps onto the couch and grabs the remote. I sit down next to him and try not to think about the engine sound of Dad's car, pulling into a motel parking lot at one in the morning, and _you should have made Sam sleep on the other bed look how close he is to the door Dad's too drunk to tell who it is what if he does something to Sammy jesus he's unlocking the door and-_

"What'd you say?" I ask, unclenching my fists and staring at the red marks my nails left on my palms. Bobby walks into the kitchen, a bag of groceries in hand.

"Are you okay?" Sam repeats.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"When is Daddy gonna come get us?"

"Um… soon."

"You said that last time. And the time before that. You almost always know."

I learned to translate Dad's spoken time frames into his real ones. An hour was actually six. One day was actually three. Three days was closer to two weeks. But this wasn't Dad leaving us in a motel room with a ten dollar bill that wouldn't last half as long as it needed to. This was us leaving Dad. Uncharted territory. "I don't this time."

"Bobby," Sammy says as he walks into the room. "When's our dad gonna come get us?"

We share a panicked look. If we say never, he's going to freak out and probably do something like _call_ him and ask him to come and get us. If we give him a date, or a month, he'll talk about it constantly and then when the day comes and his dad doesn't show up, it would be even worse than it is now. And the truth… I'm the only one who really knows the truth. That's not changing anytime soon.

"He'll be here soon, kid," Bobby says gruffly.

"Did he find the thing that killed Mom? The _monster_?"

"Not yet. But he's close."

"Okay." Sam is struggling to get out of his jacket. I sigh and lean over to help him. "De…" he says quietly. "What's that?"

"What?"

"On your arm." He pulls up my sleeve and points at the lines running across my wrist.

"They're from a werewolf," I lie, panicking, jerking my arm away and glancing towards the kitchen doorway. Bobby's still standing there, looking kind of heartbroken and kind of furious, and I can't help but think that that's an awful lot of emotions to waste on someone like me.

He motions for me to follow him, walking up the stairs like he's going to a wake. I wrap my arms around my stomach and trail behind him. _Here it is,_ I can't help but think. _Here's when he snaps. God. All hunters really are the same. They should get together once a month and form the Dean Winchester hate club. Maybe sometimes they can invite me and use me as a punching bag. Gee, that would be fun._

We're in the room I share with Sam. He's sitting on the bed, and I think he's asking me to sit, but I shake my head and stay standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room. Closer to the door. Further away from him.

"What's going on, kid?" he asks softly.

"Nothing. I'm fine. Nothing's going on." I cringe. That was the most horribly disguised cry for help I've ever made. I sound pathetic. I sound useless. I sound-

"I've been talking to someone at the hospital."

"I know."

"And he says the best thing you can do right now is just get it all out. I'm not asking you to tell me…"

"That's good. The last time I said no to a hunter it got me killed."

"But you could write it down. Or talk to someone more-"

"I'm not going to a shrink, and I don't think anyone wants to read my autobiography. Okay? Can you drop it?"

I don't realize how loud I'm getting until I finish and I can almost hear the words echoing through the entire house. We stare at each other; I can tell he doesn't want to push it, and I sure as hell don't want him to, either. I pull my sleeves down a little further and turn to leave.

"Damnit John," I hear Bobby mutter under his breath. "I'm gonna put a bullet in your brain if you set foot here again." He stands up to walk out behind me. "I will, if you do."

 _I will, if you do._

 _I will, if you do._

 _I will, if y_

I slam the door I just opened closed again and spin around to face him. The glass box around me cracks from the heat radiating off of me. I'm past angry. I'm past furious. I'm past soul-eating monster of pure rage. And I don't exactly know why I'm about to commit mass murder instead of being thrown into another crippling flashback, but it's a nice change. Words fly out of me and I only process them by Bobby's startled reaction and the way they hang in the air like the paper lanterns Mom used to make in the summer. But with less paper. And more fire. Enough, it seems, to melt glass. Enough to break through ten years of _don't tell anyone_ s and _worthless little bitch_ es and _Dad being friggin Dad_ s.

"YOU WANNA TALK?" I shout, the world around me turning red. " _Let's talk, Singer."_

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 **AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH**

 **Sorry for always taking forever. I've been in a production of _the Little Mermaid,_ and since seagull number 2 is the star of the show I've had quite a lot of rehearsals. Still wearing stage makeup, actually. Still waking up in the middle of the night with under the sea running through my head. But updating soon. Very soon. Especially after that.**


	15. Part Two: Scar Stories

Chapter Fifteen- Good Little Soldier- Scar Stories

 **Disclaimer: the following AN contains season 11 spoilers. I'm pretty sure yall are caught up, but just in case.**

 **So I just watched the new episode. And can I just say what the hell. No Destiel, no decent Lucifer moments, Kevin's back for all of 0.0001 seconds, and God watches curling and eats voodoo donuts instead of helping. Also, Dean crying at God. Also, Deanmara have some weird suicidal abusive relationship crap between each other which I am very not happy about.**

 **Everyone: THIS IS IT. THE CHAPTER. THE THING WILL HAPPEN. SO TRIGGER WARNING IS ALL OF THE TRIGGERS EVER USED IN THIS FIC. I HAVE BEEN WAITING TEN CHAPTERS TO WRITE THIS. EXCITEMENT. ANGST. WHY NO DESTIEL IN THE FINALE.**

 **Okay enough of me you came here for Dean.**

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"YOU WANNA TALK?" I shout, the world around me turning red. " _Let's talk, Singer."_

I watch myself in third person, stare at the glass around me slowly turning into a spider web of cracks as I keep going, voice dropping dangerously low, dangerously hoarse. "Let's talk about how I still wake up every morning terrified that the past month has been a dream. Or worse, that it wasn't, and I'm back with Dad. Because if he knew about the things I've already told you, that would be enough for him to kill Sam. He said he would, if I ever said a word to anyone. Or let's talk about the ten years of _hell_. Let's pour a cup of freaking tea and I'll tell you all about the _ten years_ of living with someone who beat me unconscious every time I tried to stand up for myself or my brother. Actually, let's talk about my brother. About how _I'm_ the one who had to raise Sam, how that kid is worth more to Dad than five hundred of me. And somehow, the son of a bitch finds a way to get mad at me for taking care of his own son. He left me in a boy's home for months because I had to steal just to get enough food for the rest of the week." I take a deep breath. Bobby looks like he just walked into a brick wall. "Oh, or we could talk about what happens when you combine Dad, Martin Creaser, enough booze and a camera." _No, stop,_ I try and tell myself. _Back up. Too much._ Somehow, I don't end up listening. "I could tell you about what it feels like to be John Winchester's bitch. What it feels like to be this- this _thing_ that he can do whatever the hell he wants with and sell to whoever he wants when he gets bored." In a moment of literal insanity I take my shirt off. I can see the exact moment the glass walls around me shatter. It's a beautiful sight, but it's a lot colder in the real world. " _Storytime!_ This is where he tried to kill me," I point to the word written on my stomach, and I don't look up at Bobby. I can already hear him crying. Feeling my own eyes fill with tears, I hold up my wrist. "And this is where I decided the world would be better off if I did it myself." I trace a long, thin line that follows one of my ribs. "This one was a birthday present." I twist so he can see the claw marks still on my shoulder. "A werewolf gave me these ones when he decided to use me as bait. Again. I'd turn around and show you the rest, but _belt scars_ make some people squeamish." Suddenly realizing what a bad idea this was, I put my shirt back on and stand there, seething, for a few silent minutes. "When are you going to get it through your head," I say, voice cracking "that your damn conversation skills aren't going to change the fact that I've spent the last ten years being bullied, and… raped… and abused by someone who couldn't give a rat's ass about whether I lived or died? When are you going to realize talking isn't going to change that? When are you going to-"

"Dean?" A small voice pierces through my hysterical tirade. Horrified, I turn around and stare at Sam's tear-streaked face until he turns and runs away.

Goddamnit, I knew that kid was going to silently open the wrong door someday.

I race after him and catch up to him in the kitchen. It's bad enough, seeing him cry, but this time it's my fault. This time it's all on me. I should never have opened my mouth. Not in the car when I said _no_ to Dad, not in the hospital when I gave Bobby a name, and least of all upstairs, just now, where I ruined my innocent baby brother. My head is throbbing from holding back my own tears.

"Jesus, Sammy, I'm sorry. I didn't… he's still… you weren't supposed to hear that."

"People in California could hear you," he whispers, voice strained. "Why, Dean?"

"Why what?" I stare at the floor and pray for a heart attack.

"Why would Daddy do that to you?"

I freeze. Because I deserve it… but I don't. I don't think. Because it's better me than Sam… but it shouldn't be either of us, should it? Because I made him mad? Because I screwed up? Because he misses Mom? Jesus, how have I been justifying excuses like that for _ten years?_ How did it take dropping an atomic bomb on the only two people I trust to see that there's not a reason? There's not a reason. I didn't do anything to start this- I was four. Who the hell hits a four-year-old? I've never done anything outside of what that bastard asked me to. Nothing was done to earn the things he did to me.

"Dean?" Sam says, still standing cautiously on the other side of the kitchen. "Why would he do that?"

I give him half of a tear-filled smile; the closest thing to a real smile I've felt in forever. "I don't know, Sammy."

He runs over and wraps his arms around my stomach, burying his head in my chest. "It's okay," he says awkwardly. "I still love you."

I bury my face in his hair and sob. By the time I was his age, I'd been through more crap and seen more monsters than most people have to deal with in their entire lives. And I'd given up on anyone really loving me. I still don't really believe anyone could. But Sammy's trying his damnedest. That's enough to make the tears start coming. We sit down- more of fall down, because it's hard to get to the floor when we're holding onto each other like lifelines- and stay like that, collapsed in on each other, for a long time. Bobby comes and joins us, after a while, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around both of us and making me realize that I might not have a dad but after everything I just told him Bobby might be a decent stand-in. I keep crying until my throat is raw and my lungs are torn and my head is empty and my eyes can hardly close they're so dry.

I don't know exactly how long we stay there. The sun sets. Stars come out. A full moon looks in through the window and for a second I think about werewolves and silver and Dad but I grip the back of Sam's shirt tighter and forget about them. Sammy falls asleep like that. Silently, I nudge Bobby until he stands up and find a way to pick up Sam. We head up the stairs together, and Bobby follows me into my room. I actually don't mind. It actually doesn't scare me. I put Sam in his bed, and start walking over to mine, but before I'm halfway across the floor I turn around and crawl under the blankets beside him. Bringing up everything that ever happened, all at once, I'm terrified now. And we can always wake each other up when the other is having a nightmare.

"Dean," Bobby whispers, leaning against the doorframe. "It's… are you going to be okay? I want the truth."

For the first time in my life, I give it to him. "Maybe," I say, closing my eyes and squirming closer to Sam.

 _Maybe._

That's the closest thing I've had since I was four.

 _Maybe._

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 **…**

 **…**

 **…**

 ***drops mic and runs away sobbing***


	16. Part Two: Home?

**Chapter Sixteen- Good Little Soldier- Home?**

 **So I'm sorry I haven't updated in 180 years. This chapter is a rollercoaster of emotions. Also, happy summer! My family is sitting outside drunk and talking about how babies are camels and have liver diseases. Also dog kennels. Please send soundproof windows ASAP…**

 **Trigger warnings: self-harm, mentions of child abuse/rape**

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I spent most of the next day on a walk, patrolling the streets I haven't actually seen in the five months I've been staying here. It's not living here. I don't live with Bobby, and his house isn't going to be home. I don't really know where home would be for me. Well, I do, but the house in Kansas and my mother burned down almost fifteen years ago, and I don't really know where to go from there. There was no way either of them would ever let me go back with Dad, even if I wanted to. Which I kind of do. Call it Stockholm syndrome, but as much as I hate him and as much as he hates me, he's still the last family I have left besides Sam. There has to be some worth to that, right? People deserve second chances, right?

What the hell am I saying? Of course he doesn't. He hit his own kid. No one deserves to come back from that. I bury my hands deeper in my pockets, trying to figure out which side of my imaginary argument was more sensible. It's too hard. Christ, I can't even win an argument in my own head. Worthless.

I change topics instead. I told Bobby and Sam everything last night. Which was the stupidest mistake of my life. Sam's been avoiding me all day, and Bobby left early this morning and hasn't come back. It would be easier to just jump off a bridge than to go home- back to the house and face them. When I told that nurse at school in seventh grade she'd looked at me like I was an injured unicorn she'd found in a forest and launched into a rapid-fire interrogation. _Does he do this to the rest of your family? No? Well, did he kill your mom? How often does he do this? Why haven't you left? Why haven't you told anyone until now? Are you going to press charges?_ And that was a complete stranger. Once Sam and Bobby start talking to me again, it's going to be a hurricane of things I can't respond to. They won't want to hear the answers, and I don't want to give them. Yesterday was enough for me, but I know with all the dread in me that it was only the beginning for them.

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Bobby is waiting for me when I come in. He's sitting on the couch, reading a book, but he stops when I walk in the way TV parents stop when their kids come home. It's unnerving; I don't have any experience with TV parents. I'm not the person who has TV parents. "Hey," he says, just soft enough for it to be the opposite of casual. "Can you sit down?"

I reluctantly sit on the couch across from him. It feels too much like my first night here after I died.

"I went to the police station today," he starts.I sigh and move to stand up again, but he stops me. "And I talked to someone there, who sent me to someone else, who sent me to about five other people. But the bottom line is that I pulled enough strings to make a puppeteer jealous, and- if you want- I have all the papers right here."

"Papers for what?" I ask. "Is this a marriage license? Because I don't think it would work-"

"I'm talking about adopting you and Sam," he says, deadly serious.

I lose the ability to move or breath or think properly. "What the hell, Bobby?"

"Kid," he says, his voice cracking in a way it shouldn't while he's talking about me. "You don't deserve to live with a guy like that."

"I'm not living with him now," I reply, still reeling from the news. Adoption means living here. Permanently. It means Bobby signing Sam's permission slips for him and going to his parent-teacher conferences. It means Bobby being in charge of remembering our birthdays- even though Sam and I have both kind of given up on that issue- and us being in charge of remembering his. It means staying in his house and probably having a curfew because he seems like he'd care about crap like that and him helping Sam with homework and trying and failing to help me with mine if I ever go back to school. It means a ton of things that shouldn't be addressed this suddenly after everything that was said last night, after everything I've been through.

There's also the chance that he'll go power-crazy.

I know it's a paranoid thought, but Dad used to be a good parent. He used to help Mom cram my stocking full on Christmas after I'd gone to bed. He used to smile when I walked into the room he was in. He used to answer all the questions I asked even though I was four and they were probably pretty annoying.

 _I run towards the edge of the water, my bare feet hitting the cool sand with all the strength they can muster. The sky has started fading into darker blues, but a ocean sunset still paints the edges bright shades of yellow and red and purple. I ask if we can stay in Oregon forever. Dad smiles like I'm the only thing in the world and says yes, of course we can._

 _The white lights glow happily on the tree as I reach for a box under the tree, wrapped with glaringly red paper. "No, Dean-o," Dad says, handing me a different package. "Open this one first." I grin and nod and tear into the Christmas present._

It's easy to get tired of me. It's easy to start hating me.

"Dean? Talk to me," Bobby says.

"He's still family," I whisper. "He used to be good."

"I know. But you're not going to get that back."

"That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying… it's not that I think you're going to. Or anything. But Dad used to be good. And then he wasn't. And if we do this, there's always a chance-"

"You think I'm going to turn into John?" Bobby hisses. It's more sad than angry. "Dean, I would never do that to you. Or Sam. Or anyone."

"Anyone human," I add.

"Anyone human. And I'm sorry that it's even a possibility to you."

"It's not you," I say, staring hard at the coffee table between us. It's covered in papers. "It's just that I can't. Trust you. That much. Because I used to trust him."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I don't know. Get a job. Make enough money to find an apartment."

"You're fourteen."

"I have three fake IDs. I'll get Sam through school. I'll keep an eye out for Dad. I'll figure it out."

"You say that like you have to do it by yourself."

"That's how I've had to do everything else."

"But you don't have to anymore, Dean!" Bobby makes an exasperated noise and stands up, only to sit back down a few seconds later. "This doesn't mean we're suddenly family. But it means you're going to get to decide who is. I know you've been through things I can't imagine, and I know you think that's the only way anyone can ever treat you. And I know you think, on some level, that you deserved every second of it. Otherwise you wouldn't still be hurting yourself."

I glance up in surprise.

"Of course I know. You showed me during your rage-fueled tell-all last night. I want to help, Dean. That's it. I don't want to replace anything, I don't even need you to trust me, even if I really wish you could. I just… want to help. I want to promise you that I'm never going to hurt you or Sam, that you're going to be okay, and that neither of you have to worry about that bastard anymore, and I want you to believe me. Even if you don't believe anything else I say for the rest of my life. That's all this is."

A few tears rebel against my attempts to keep them in. It would be easy for most people to agree to what he's saying. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Sam to trust him. But I'm not most people. I'm not Sam. I'm the pathetic, useless little kid that everyone sees me as, who needs help but can't accept it when it's offered to him because he's been hurt too much to trust anyone. They could write a freaking movie about me and girls would pay to watch it and cry their eyes out. How do I respond to this? I can't say no, flat-out. But I can't let him adopt Sam and me.

"Have you told Sammy?" I finally say.

"No. You're the one who makes the decisions for him."

"This isn't where we're going for dinner. This is you adopting us. I'm going to talk to him about it."

Bobby's shoulders visibly sink with his hopes for me opening up. Better luck next time, I think sadly. "He's in his room if you want to. I'd probably start with a better explanation about John, though. He still hasn't wrapped his head around the whole thing."

"Okay." I stand up and start towards the stairs. "Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"That promise would be a bitch to keep."

He stands up and walks heavily towards the kitchen. "It really wouldn't be."

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Sam's buried in a book when I walk into our room. I sit on the edge of his bed and don't say anything, waiting for him to finish his chapter and trying to think of something I can say. He closes his book and sits up, staring at me with wide brown eyes rimmed with red. He's been crying. A lot. I look out the window and try not to notice.

"Hi," he says, following my gaze.

"Hey Sammy. Good book?"

"Yeah. Can't really concentrate on it, though. Can't stop thinking about Dad."

"Me neither, kid."

"Why? And why just you?"

"Um. Right. Because…" I start to wrack my brain to find a decent excuse, but then I meet Sam's eyes. He's ten, but he acts like he's older than I am sometimes. I'm so used to being the older one I forget he's not a baby I have to look after constantly anymore. It's disturbing, but it makes me realize I need to stop making excuses. "You want the truth?"

"Of course."

"Because he's a screwed-up son of a bitch who is ninety percent alcohol and ten percent revenge. And it was just me because I never let him touch you. He probably would have hit you, too, but I didn't let him. Don't feel guilty about that, okay? Please. I don't regret it, and I'd do it again."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"He's your dad. I didn't want to ruin that for you."

"Why didn't you tell someone else?"

"We would have gotten stuck in foster care."

"So you stayed for me," he says in a small voice.

I wince at the sympathy in his voice and wrap my arm around his shoulders. "Yeah. I did."

We sit there for a long time, not saying a word. There's not much left to say. I don't think about anything, I just keep my eyes trained on Sam's hair and let my mind go blank for a change.

"Sam," I say as the shadows in the room start to lengthen. "You're ten. That's, like, double digits. You're old enough to make decisions for yourself, don't you think?"

"Yeah…"

"Bobby wants to adopt us."

"What? Like now?"

"Sooner than later, it seems like. What do you say?"

Sam looks around the room, eyes wide. "I mean… yeah. What else would we do?"

"I could get a job and get us an apartment by ourselves."

"I think we should live with Bobby," Sam says carefully. "I like my new school. I like staying."

We've spent our entire lives moving every couple months, never there long enough to make friends or know the street names. The dust was always settling. Of course he wants to pick somewhere and stay there- the only thing he wants is to be normal.

"Does Sully have anything to say?" I ask, because I've learned that sometimes Sam's imaginary friend is really just an excuse to say something he doesn't want to say himself.

"I think he went on vacation," Sam replies, kicking his legs against the mattress.

"Really? Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. We had a fight before Bobby picked me up from Dad. I think he doesn't know where I am now."

Usually I can decode the whole Sully thing into something more real, but this hasn't happened before. This is uncharted imaginary territory. "Well," I say carefully, "what do you think he would say? If he were here?"

"I think he likes staying, too."

Okay. Crap. I'd kind of assumed Sam wouldn't want to do something so drastic so soon.

"You know what getting adopted would mean, right?" I warn. "Bobby would be like our dad."

"But he'd be better at it than Daddy was."

"Well, maybe."

"No, he will be," Sam says, flinging himself back so he's lying on his back. "Because he's not going to hate you and be mean to you and he's going to buy us Christmas presents and drive us to school when we miss the bus and he won't make you go hunt monsters when you don't want to. Bobby's gonna buy us birthday presents and he'll stay home when I'm sick like he did that one time I was sick when we stayed here and he'll make that soup too and he's not going to do anything bad to either of us and he's going to be a good fake dad and not a fake good dad."

"Have you thought about this a lot?" I say, feeling tears stinging the back of my eyes. God, I can't cry twice in an hour.

"Yeah ever since we got here. I just didn't wanna say anything because I thought Daddy was coming back."

"Sam… I don't know if I want to."

"Why not?"

"What if Bobby turns out like Dad did?"

"He's not going to," Sam says, without a trace of doubt.

I scoff. "How do you know?"

"Because you said that people who spend lots of time with lots of monsters like Dad does will be like the monsters. But Bobby doesn't spend any time with monsters. He just calls people all day."

"Well, I can't argue with that, can I?" I say, laughing a little. Leave it to Sam to remember something I said ages ago, and to come up with a flawless argument. He'd make a hell of a lawyer.

%%%%%%%%%%%%yay such a good transition right guys%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

I sit in the bathroom and stare at the knife in my hand.

Apparently making life-changing decisions involves screwing up my wrists while locked in the bathroom like the worthless coward I am. Apparently I need this to function. Pain. Bobby is right; I know I deserve it. This, at least. I can't keep a damn secret, can I? Dad, and now this. It doesn't make me feel better anymore. It's just a thing now, but I need it because this is what happens to people who can't keep their mouths shut even if it's to protect their own little brother.

They're right. I do need help. I don't deserve help, but I need it.

Suddenly I'm exhausted. Incredibly, incurably exhausted. Mom? I say silently, out of habit. I know she's not going to answer, even if she is there. _So who the hell am I supposed to go to?_

 _Bobby._ Of freaking course. I need help, and I don't deserve it, but honestly at this point I don't care. I'm sick of fighting battles I don't need to fight, and I'm sick of resorting to crap like this to keep myself from going insane. I grab the knife and stand up, staring at my reflection. Jesus, I look terrible. I look like I got back from war instead of a ten-minute conversation with my brother and dinner. And I can't do this anymore. I go to my room to find the knife that's in there, too.

This is a stupid idea. I have no right to do this for myself.

I walk downstairs and head straight for the kitchen. I forgot that I'm still only wearing a short-sleeved shirt. I'm too tired to care. I find Bobby sitting at the table reading a mythology textbook, a half-empty glass of whiskey next to him. The sight of it almost makes me turn back, but I remind myself to focus on the look in Sam's eyes when he talked about what living with Bobby- permanently- would be like, and my eyes in the mirror before I left the bathroom.

I slam the knives on the table and shove my hands in my pockets.

"What's this?" he asks in a voice that has the answer written all over it.

"You promised. Remember that," I say, my own voice a few pitches higher than normal.

"I will."

"You'd better."

With that, I walk up to my room and sleep for fourteen hours.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%yep i am the queen of transitions so smooth%%%%%%%%%

When I finally get up the next morning (afternoon), Sam's at school and Bobby's at the college library, according to the note he left. I find a half- empty box of cereal and sit in front of the TV, doing my best to ignore the official-looking papers on the table that are obviously about who the Winchester children rightfully belong to.

The phone rings. I don't answer. For one thing, getting to the wall of phones involves standing up, which is the last thing I feel like doing. For another, there's a good chance I'll end up having to pretend to be an FBI official or a chief of police or a sheriff or a concerned girlfriend and I've never been one for acting. The phone rings again, and this time I realize it's actually coming from the hallway, not the wall of carefully labelled phones in the kitchen. I ignore it. It's either a persistent telemarketer or someone who needs Bobby urgently, in which case they should have been good enough friends to get his cell number.

It rings again. I curse at whoever decided to call and push myself off the couch, determined to murder them through the phone lines. I'm debating over whether there's a legitimate way to do that when I pick up the phone.

"Name and nightmare," I say gruffly.

"Dean. So Creaser wasn't screwing with me."

I stop breathing.

"... _Dad_?"

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 **MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA**

 **YOU THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE A GOOD ENDING DIDN'T YOU**

 **YOU THOUGHT I WOULDN'T HAVE A CLIFFHANGER FOR ONCE**

 **WELL GET USED TO DISAPPOINTMENT**

 **IT'S WAY TOO LATE AT NIGHT FOR ME TO BE WRITING GOODNIGHT.**


	17. Part Three: Colder World

Chapter Seventeen- Good Little Soldier- Colder World

That's right friends I'm UPDATING. ON TIME. It's almost as unlikely as destiel becoming canon next season. Now, for those of you who want John sent back to hell where he belongs. First of all, I only kill off the characters you like. I'm practicing for when I'm a legit TV writer. Second, I'm making the decision not to kill him because Bobby or Dean would have to lower themselves to John's level to do something like that. And I don't think that's in either of their characters, both in the show and this story.

Also I'm super sorry for the lack of italics/ bold in the last chapter. I switched programs and apparently technology is not in my favor. It's edited and the flashbacks conform to my OCD writing style now.

LinkToTwilight: hahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAAAAA I'm sorry

babyreaper: I have a peter pan quote for you: "but then there would be no story."

InkHeart2273: Always happy to be called a demon. And you're welcome.

Trigger warnings: graphic(er than usual) rape scene/abuse scene (additional warnings when it actually happens), panic attacks, PTSD, mentions of child abuse/rape, suicidal thoughts, John Winchester's A+ parenting.

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I can't breathe. Or see, really. Black spots are floating in and out of my vision like dust, and it's probably from the fact that I might be hyperventilating. Only I have no idea if I'm hyperventilating. Because nothing is working. My stomach hurts. I'm probably gonna throw up. If I don't die of a heart attack. Either way, I'm gonna die. It's here, right now, on the phone, or as soon as Dad finds the nearest motel off the highway. Sam first, to show me what happens when I really screw up his rules, and then me, because I'm of no use to him if Sam's not there for me to take care of. I'm dead. No matter what I do. Holy crap, I'm dead.

I can't breathe.

"Where's Bobby? And your brother?" Dad asks. I hear highway white noise behind him; he's driving. Here, no doubt.

I swallow as hard as I can and attempt to talk. "He's… T-they-they're…"

"They're what? Christ, kid, you forget how to talk along with forgetting how to follow basic orders?"

"Sam's at school and he'll be home in an hour and a half. Bobby's at the university library researching something for Rufus."

"So he's gonna be a while."

"Yes, sir." I stare at what I can see of the floor between the black spots and realize it's a lot closer than it used to be. So I'm sitting now.

"Listen. I know it's hard for you, you pathetic slut, but I'm gonna be there in two hours. You get yours and Sam's crap together and wait for me by the back door. If Bobby comes back, I'll make something up-"

"Bobby knows."

The line goes so silent I think he's hung up. Then he says, in a flat, icy tone, "What?"

"I told him. Everything. Sam, too." I can't breathe.

"That is the biggest mistake you've ever made, you worthless son of a bitch. When are you gonna learn how to follow basic instructions? Are you always going to be this worthless?"

"Most likely, sir." God, why did I say that?

"You just killed your brother, Dean. I'll see you in two hours."

The line on the other end fills with the dull buzzing of a flatline. Sam's flatline.

I scream and throw the phone against the nearest wall. It cracks in half. I can't breathe. I can't do a damned thing but sit here and scream and run into the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet in time to throw up and scream some more and lay on the bathroom floor Dad's coming he's gonna kill Sam Dad's coming he's gonna kill Sam and me Dad'scomingDad'scomingDad'scoming what the hell am I going to do now?

Mom?

Mom are you there?

Mom. Please.

Damnit. MOM.

Nothing happens. Nothing's going to happen. Whatever I saw in that forest when I almost died was a hallucination. Nothing else. Dad's going to come through that back door in two hours and there's nothing I can do to stop him. Dad's going to kill Sam and there's nothing I can do to stop him. Everything will go back to how it was before, but it will be more than twice as bad because Sam won't be there, forcing him to keep his parent mask on. Because Sam won't be there to keep me safe or alive. Because Sam won't be there, period. And because for a few months, a few hours, I got half a look at what it looks like to not be Dad's good little soldier, Dad's attack dog, Dad's bitch, and in two hours I'm giving that half a glance back up.

I take my first deep breath in twenty minutes and stare at the bathroom ceiling. There's nothing left to do but pack and wait. So that's what I do. Exactly what Dad told me to. Exactly what Dad's been telling me to do for the past ten years. Pack up and leave and take whatever I give you and take care of Sammy and shoot first and ask questions later and don't ask questions at all.

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EXPLICIT RAPE/ABUSE AHEAD. SKIP THE NEXT SECTION IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY SUCH THINGS.

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The first time he hit me I was four and a half. I didn't know very much. Just that Mom was gone and I was supposed to take care of Sam because he was the only thing we really saved from the fire. Sam was one and Dad was drunk. I knew what that was, by then. Sam fell over and started bawling like Niagra falls and screaming like a banshee. I knew what those were, too. Dad started yelling at me to get him to quiet down. I didn't know how to do that; I was four and a half. The next thing I remember was me sitting on the floor next to Sam, hurting a lot and crying more and Dad just looking down at the two of us like we were all three the biggest failures the world had ever seen.

The first time he turned me into nothing I was seven. It was 1:04 in the morning, when I looked at the clock as he dragged me towards the bathroom. Those green numbers don't go away for me. Ever. He left the lights off, but it didn't matter. There was too much neon and too many headlights seeping through the window to call it dark. Nothing is clear after the door closed behind us, because nothing was clear then, either. There was him saying take your clothes off and me saying no and him rolling his eyes and doing it for me. There was pain and more pain and me knowing that if Mom were here, she wouldn't let this happen. And then there was me on the bathroom floor, trying to use one of the scratchy towels as a blanket because he was out there, in that room, pretending like nothing had happened and I was still there. But I wasn't. Not really.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

NOW BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED HELL

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I stop thinking about that. I stop thinking at all. That's how I got through ten years of doing everything my father told me to; pretend you have as much brain and as many feelings as the car he drives. As much heart as the gun he's pointed at you a few too many times. Instead of thinking, I walk upstairs and empty the contents of our room into two duffel bags. I shove my necklace in one of the pockets, scared that it might just make things worse if he sees it.

What am I going to tell Sam? He needs to know what's happening, and why we can't stop it. I can't think of a word I can say to him that isn't making an excuse for Dad.

And I don't have time. The back door opens, and closes, and I flinch so hard something falls off the windowsill. He runs up to our room, this big, quickly fading smile all over his face.

"Dean! I… Dean?"

I don't say anything.

"Dean, what happened? Is this about Bobby? Why are you crying?"

I didn't know I was crying.

Sam runs over to where I'm standing and pulls me into a tight hug. I lean my head into his and take a few deep breaths, trying not to repeat two nights ago.

"Sammy…" I start. "I'm sorry." I'm sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I killed you. I'm sorry we're going back to live with that monster.

"Sorry for what?"

"There's nothing I can do."

"Dean, you're scaring me."

"He's gonna be here in-" I glance at the clock, my heart dropping to my ankles "-twenty minutes."

"Who is?"

"There was nothing I could do."

Sam pushes away from me, a look halfway between rage and terror in his eyes. "DAD?"

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

I hear the loud engine of the Impala like growling hellhounds as it speeds down the street. Dad's never been one for following speed limits. There's a tangible silence between Sam and me as we wait in the kitchen for him to pull up to the house. Sam looks like he's about to go to war.

I want to say I'm sorry again, but there's a lump in my throat I can't talk around. And I don't think it would do any good. Apologizing isn't going to make that car slow down, and it isn't going to change the look on Sammy's face.

"Wait," Sam says, looking up from the table he's been stubbornly staring at. "We could leave Bobby a note. Then he could come get us."

"He's not going to know where we are," I reply.

"After everything he did to you, you seem awfully happy to go right back to him."

"It's complicated, Sam. You… he said he would kill you if I told anyone, and he knows I told you and Bobby. So us going back, it's… I'm just trying to keep the damage to a minimum."

"Shoot him," Sam replies, his expression corpse-cold.

"What? No!"

"Why the hell not, Dean? He deserves it."

"He's your dad-"

"You keep saying that. He's my dad. But what's he to you?"

"I…" We stand there and stare at each other. I realize that I've never thought about it. I can't call him my dad, and he's made it pretty clear I'm not his son. Then what is he? "I don't know," I whisper.

The door opens. I turn around and lower my eyes to the floor. It's better not to look at him.

"Boys," he says.

"You bastard!" Sam manages to shout before charging towards Dad with all the intimidation, force, and power of a baby hamster.

I can tell Dad's hand is about to go up before it actually does. There's bile rising in my throat, but I push it down. I run towards the two of them, stepping between them just in time to take Dad's hit. Pain ignites on my cheek and spreads across my face, and I stumble back towards the wall.

Sam freezes and fixes the most shocked pair of eyes I've ever seen on me. And then on Dad. And then on me again.

"Get in the car," he says, pointing out the door. Sam doesn't even blink; just picks up his duffel and walks outside.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"You thought I was bad before, you just wait," Dad whispers over my shoulder as we walk towards the Impala. "You haven't seen anything, you ungrateful, lying, pathetic son of a bitch. And that includes your whiny little brother. I'm done playing nice with that brat"

"Don't touch him," I say, halfheartedly attempting to stand up for Sam. Things go blank for a second, and then I'm lying on the ground, my forehead pressed into the dust.

"I can touch anyone I want, anywhere I want. Remember what happened last time you told me what to do?"

I don't say anything. He kicks the side of my ribs, and I pretend I don't feel anything. Then he starts screaming.

"The only reason I'm not leaving you on the side of the road, you worthless little bitch, is because I can't trust you not to go around telling every damn stranger you meet about me. And I'd kill you, but first you need to learn that there are consequences to disobeying me. Now get your useless ass in that car in ten seconds or I'm going to shoot you right through your good intentions."

I drag myself to my knees. "Yes sir," I mumble, tripping towards the back door of the car. Sam's in the other side of the backseat, tears running down his face. "I'm fine," I whisper as I slide in next to him. He just starts crying harder. Sighing, I wrap my arm around his shoulders and pull us closer together as Dad slams the door and finishes the bottle of whatever was in the seat next to him. "I'm sorry," I whisper into Sam's hair as we pull out of Bobby's. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Right now, I'm just trying to stop hoping.

For anything.

That was why it was so hard for me the first ten years, I think. I was always hoping something would happen. Mom would come back or at least acknowledge that she was there, someone would hear what was happening through the motel room walls, Bobby would ask how I got whatever bruise or cut he was patching up. There was always hope something better would come along. Then something did, and it lasted five freaking months before it was taken away from me again. So what's the point in hope? Everything's going to be easier once I stop pretending things are going to change, or that someone's going to come rescue us. This is how I'm going to survive forever with Dad. Just stop believing in anything.

Now is when the angels are supposed to descend from the sky and tell me everything's going to be fine. But none of them do, because they're not real. My point has been made.

We pull into the nearest motel. Dad doesn't bother with checking to make sure the room is safe; Sam knows it's never going to be. We walk in and he locks the door. Within two hours Sam is curled in a compact ball in the corner, a purple-yellow bruise covering half his face despite all my attempts to stop it, and I'm lying on the bathroom floor wishing he had just killed me, and he's off at the nearest bar where he's going to be until 3 in the morning, when he'll come back and it'll start all over again. There's nothing to do but lie here and close my eyes and wait for it.

Until I hear Sam knocking on the bathroom door. "Dean, let me in," he says softly.

"One second," I say back, searching for my jeans in the dark. It takes me a few minutes. When I open the door, his bruise has gotten worse. Wincing at how much I know it hurts, I kneel down and get a closer look at Sam. He seems mostly okay otherwise. "There's probably something we can use for an ice pack in this room," I tell him, glancing over his shoulder at the mini fridge.

"What about you?" he asks.

Me? My back feels like it's turned to glass and is going to shatter if I move my shoulders. I'm pretty sure all of my ribs are cracked. I have the worst migraine of my life, and that's just from what happened before Dad dragged me in here. "I'm fine, Sam."

"No you're not."

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. "No, I"m not. We have a few hours before Dad gets home. You should get some sleep."

"What about you?"

"Sammy, I did this for ten years. I'm going to be fine."

He bursts into tears, his head still in my shoulder. It takes everything in me not to do the same thing. Instead, I pick him up and carry him to one of the beds, kicking the covers aside with my foot. "Shhhhhh," I whisper, lowering him onto the mattress. "I'm gonna try and find something for that bruise."

There isn't anything. And getting ice would involve going outside, which I'm not going to be caught doing if Dad's back early. So I come back and sit on the edge of the bed, brushing Sam's hair out of his face.

"Hey, Jude, don't be sad," I sing quietly. The light outside is almost gone. "Take a sad song and make it happy… "

"You can't sing worth crap," Sam murmurs into the pillow. "Keep going."

I smile a little and forget my no-hope resolution. "Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better."

A siren wails in the distance, and I pretend it's the cops looking for us because Bobby cares enough to send the cops. Sam closes his eyes. I know he's not going to sleep anytime soon, but at least he's pretending. Nothing else is happening to you, kid, I say to myself. "Hey Jude, don't be afraid, you were made to go out and get her…"

"What are we going to do?" Sam exhales.

"Remember to let her under your skin, and you'll begin to make it better…"

"Dean. I'm serious. What are we going to do?"

"I don't have a damn idea. Someday I'm going to have enough money to do something, and until then we'll figure something out."

"What if we can't-"

"We're going to find a way to live like this until I can get you out."

"Let's call the cops."

"We'll be dead by the time they get here."

"Let's run away."

"I've tried everything, Sammy." I run a hand through my hair and stand up, pacing in front of the cheap bed. "I've tried every single thing. We're just going to have to live through this. Which is going to be hard as hell, but at least one of us can."

Sam sits up and pins me where I am with his gaze. "You're not planning on getting out at all, are you? You're going to let him kill you."

I sigh heavily and raise my arms, only to let them drop again because I don't know why I was doing it in the first place. "Well, I'm not going to let him kill you…" I manage.

"Dean. Stop. If I get out, so do you. Okay?"

It's going to be easier to just agree with him. Lying is one of the many talents I inherited from my father. "Okay, Sam. We'll figure out a way for both of us to leave."

"Great."

"Yeah."

Eventually, Sam falls into some form of sleep. I sit in the chair next to the door and wait for Dad to come back from wherever he was or whoever he was with. Someone has to be in between him and Sam, and I've been that someone for ten years. This isn't any different.

Nothing has changed since we left.

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Wow I didn't think I could end a chapter in a non-cliffhanger-y way. But it's a good thing, because I'm going on vacation for two-ish weeks and won't even be able to start chapter 18. But while I'm gone, feel free to leave suggestions for what should happen next. Or at least, like, how your summer's going. I love hearing from you, seriously. Anyway, it's getting kind of late and I have a giant stack of books to read. I guess I'll see you in a few weeks!


	18. Part Three: Pathetic

Chapter 18- Good Little Soldier- Pathetic

 **PLEASE READ THIS VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:**

 **Attention, GLS readers! Have people said you are good at writing smut? Do you have a basic knowledge of how grammar and the English language work? Are you prepared to have your writing featured in a story so fluffy it could outdo a unicorn made out of marshmallows eating cotton candy on a pink cloud castle? Then you're in luck! Here's the deal: If you haven't read what's posted of my other ongoing fic, Rain Check, it's a college destiel AU and I'm really excited to keep writing it. But it is destiel, which means it wouldn't be good if there wasn't some smut involved, and the only things I can write are super fluffy and super depressing. So if you can write decent smut scenes, PM me! Okay! I'm going to stop shamelessly begging and self-promoting now!**

 **babyreaper: Dean knew things would be worse if he tried to hide or call Bobby. But don't worry too much about him being a wimp- he's still a strong little abused teddy bear.**

 **glitterjewel: don't worry help is on the way.**

 **dbanjeezeez: I'm glad you like it so much! And if you watch the show, you're already a sick and twisted person. Read all the abusive fanfic you want.**

 **Trigger warnings: verbal abuse, ahh scary ghosty stuff, PTSD/ nightmares, total lack of wincest despite the low-key wincest-y moments that end up being there through the whole story**

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Sam wakes up screaming somewhere between three and five in the morning. I drop the case files I'm looking through and run across the motel room, jumping onto the bed and grabbing his shoulders. "Hey, Sammy, it's okay," I say quietly. "It was just a dream."

"N-no it wasn't…" he answers, leaning into my chest. "It was last night…"

"Sam. Look at me." I wait until his tear-filled brown eyes are fixed on mine. "We killed it, okay? That poltergeist is dead. It's not gonna hurt anyone anymore, least of all you. You scared the crap out of it."

"I was bait."

I bite my lip and look down. "Yeah, yeah you were," I whisper.

Dad slams his pen on the table, startling both of us. "Can you girls shut the hell up? We're trying to find the thing that killed your mom. Now's not the time for a sleepover."

Sam's frightened look turns into a glare and his hands clench into fists against my stomach. I grab his arm, trying to hold him back from doing something stupid. Eventually it works. "Sam left something in the car," I say over my shoulder. A few seconds later the keys hit the fresh bruises and scars in my back. Sam follows me out the door to the covered sidewalk outside. Dying neon lights blink above us like drunken fireflies and turn his skin green. I take a deep breath and pull him to the other end of the parking lot, out of earshot from the thin walls of our room.

He kicks the nearest car so hard it dents the door. "I'm going back to Bobby's," he says through gritted teeth.

"Sam, you can't. He knows-"

"I don't give a damn what he knows! I'm not living with that bastard, I'm not going to sit on my ass and let him walk all over me, and I'm not gonna be a hunter!" He kicks the car again. I pray the alarm doesn't go off. "I mean, look what it does to people. I've seen him sober about eight times, and I don't know how many times I've seen him do anything for either of us but it's a helluva lot less than that. Bobby's a hoarder and a shut-in, but at least he's not heartless. And then there's you."

"Me? What the hell is wrong with me?" I shout back, more out of desperation than actual anger.

"What the hell isn't wrong with you?"

"No, tell me, Freud." I take a step towards him. "Come on. I can take it."

"You can take anything. And you do. Lying down. There are these things, they're called choices, and it'd be nice if you could make one for yourself once in awhile. You just do what everyone tells you."

"I'm trying to protect you-"

"I DON'T NEED PROTECTING!" he screams. "I can take care of myself. And the only reason you're this over protective of me is because Dad told you to. Have you even had an original thought? You know, maybe he's the one who knows what you really are. A good little soldier, and nothing else. I mean, one phone call and you're giving up your only chance at happiness. At being normal. And you're dragging me along with you. You're not protecting me, Dean! If you were we would be back at Bobby's."

This hurts worse than anything Dad's ever said to me. "So we could wait for him to come and get us the hard way?"

"The hard way is the way that would've gotten us out of this mess. You could have called Bobby. Or 911. Or done something besides let him walk all over you!"

I take a shaky breath. "I wasn't exactly thinking straight."

"Is that your excuse? That's weak, Dean. Were you not thinking straight for ten years when you let Dad do whatever he wanted to you without even telling Bobby? Were you not thinking straight when you didn't leave a note saying we were being kidnapped by a psychopath? Were you not thinking straight when Dad pushed me into that house last week and almost let that poltergeist rip my lungs out?"

"You know, I don't need this from you," I say. I read somewhere rage is the emotion people use to deflect other emotions. Like, if you're actually more hurt than you've ever been in your entire life even though your life has been one hurt after another, but you subconsciously or very consciously want to hide that fact, rage is the go-to feeling. And right now it's boiling hotter than hellfire in me. "I don't need a scared, ten-year-old kid telling me what I am. You know what I did? I stayed with that monster-" I point back towards the motel "- for a decade so you wouldn't be shoved in a foster home with someone who, god forbid, was even worse than him. I almost died trying to keep you safe. Way more than once. I have been dealing with more crap than a sewer system, and I don't need you telling me that having the guts to do that is martyrdom. Also, while we're on the topic of weaknesses-"

"Don't even start."

"Oh, I'm going to. We've been here, what, two weeks? And you're already running away?"

"Because I know it's the smart thing to do. I know smart's a foreign word to you."

"Yeah, you're so smart. You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, the way you can figure out what's going on around you. You're so obsessed with being normal, too. Kid, your mom was killed by a demon on your bedroom ceiling when you were six months old. You grew up in a motel room. There's no normal for you, I'm sorry. Can't you just accept that?"

"Like you've accepted everything anyone's ever told you?"

"How about like I've learned to live with it?"

"Oh, so this is how you live with it?" Sam grabs my wrist and pulls up my sleeve, exposing the white and red lines going up my forearm. "That's healthy. And sane."

I jerk my hand away. "Is there a point to all this?"

"I'm leaving. And you should come with me, but I know you're not going to, because you're a friggin' doormat."

"You can't drive."

"I'll walk."

"That's pathetic. You're pathetic."

 _I pull myself off the floor of the empty house and limp towards Sam, who's still drowsily aiming an iron fire poker at the door. Dad rolls his eyes and grabs my shirt collar, dragging me towards the kitchen. "Who taught you how to aim a shotgun?" He asks dismissively. "A one-eyed paraplegic?"_

 _"I was going to hit Sam," I say, my eyes glued to the tiles on the floor. Blue. Mom's favorite color._

 _"That's pathetic. You're pathetic. Go get your brother and let's get the hell out of dodge."_

Oh my god.

I'm turning into Dad.

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 ***tightens bulletproof vest***

 ***grabs shield***

 ***hides behind wall of sandbags topped with barbed wire***

 ***clicks post new chapter***


	19. Part Three: Letter to the Editor

Chapter Nineteen- Good Little Soldier- Letter to the Editor

I would like to issue a formal apology for the past two chapters and the annoyance, anger, or emotional trauma they might have caused. No, that was not how Dean should behave ever. Yes, it was necessary. Yes, it was completely out of character. And no, Bobby will not show up out of the blue and kick John's ass, because someday I will be a legit TV writer and I need to practice ripping people's hearts out and stomping on them. That is all.

babyreaper: Sam has definitely changed a lot since he found out about John. The way Dean was acting is an allusion to the fact that he could potentially become like John, not that he's actually turning into him.

Dbanjeezeez: There are people on this site with enough of a social life to go to parties? You learn something new every day. Also your reviews make me super happy so thank you for writing them!

Trigger warnings: suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide, panic attacks, ahhhhhhhhh

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Oh my god.

I didn't just say that. I couldn't have said that, because that would make me as bad as Dad. Worse than him, actually, because I know exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end and I still said it. I stare at my hands, barely breathing, expecting them to look like Dad's or to fly at Sam at any moment. I can't let this happen. I can't say something like that again. I… need to stop this while I still can.

First I need Sam to leave. I'm not doing anything with him nearby. "Go," I say. My voice sounds weird. Two-dimensional. I take a twenty out of my pocket and hand it to Sam. "Just… go."

"Dean, come on. Come with me."

Any chance I had at leaving with Sam, at leaving this motel, is gone. Because if he leaves, Dad will kill me. But I don't think he's going to get that satisfaction. Sam's right; I need to do something by myself for once. And this is what it's going to be. "No, Sammy. I can't leave."

"Yes, you-"

"Go, okay? You go, and go to school and college. You get yourself a great job and a family who isn't this screwed up, and you be the best this world's ever seen."

"What are you gonna do?" Sam says, sniffing.

I pull him into a hug. "I'm gonna stay here and save the world. Hey, stop crying. It'll be fine. Besides, I'll probably get to keep the car if Dad dies."

Sam laughs a little through his tears, and it makes me realize I'm crying, too.

"Bobby and I can come find you," he says, pulling away a little.

I'm going to be gone by then, I want to tell him. I'm going to be gone in the next hour. This isn't a see you later, Sammy. So I'm sorry for everything I've put you through and all the times I wasn't there for you. And I know there's going to be so many more, especially now. Kid, you were the only thing keeping me here, and you still are. So don't come and look for me. Don't go searching the news for cases I might be working with Dad, don't look for my name or one of the fake names I use anywhere. I'm not going to be there. This isn't a see you later, it's a goodbye. But I can't tell him any of that, or he won't leave. So instead I just say, "I don't think you'd like what you'd find," and ruffle his hair a little. "Come on. No chick flick moments. Go home."

"I guess it is more of home than this ever was," Sam says.

I nod.

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I wait for a few minutes after he disappears from sight. "Bye, Sammy," I whisper, and walk towards the car, tossing the keys up into the night air and letting them dig into my palm when I catch them. The hatch to the trunk creaks when I open it, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent parking lot. I prop open the false bottom with a shotgun and search for the extra notebook I swore we keep there. I find it, along with a pen. I wish it was a pencil, because I've no doubt I'm going to be making a lot of mistakes writing what I'm about to write. I take the handgun I've been using since I was six, too. Somehow it feels a lot heavier than I remember it being.

There's a deserted corner of the parking lot that no one's going to notice until tomorrow morning. I sit on the asphalt and stare at the motel, the neon lights of the sign blinking on and off as they fight to stay lit. Finally one of the letters flickers out and stays out. I take a deep breath; the air smells like car exhaust and fryer oil from the diner across the street. This is Dad's dream place. A monster to kill, a kid to beat up, and a motel and diner right across the street from each other. Freaking perfect. I rip a page out of the notebook and flatten it out on the pavement in front of me. Time to spill my guts, I think with a small smile. I spent the last five months trying to avoid talking about this stuff with Bobby. But now, he's the only person I can think of to write this to. I print his address on the page, so they'll know where to send it when they find me. Then I flip it over and start writing.

Bobby-

There aren't a lot of people I could write this to, but it's not like I didn't have options. There was a kid who worked at a diner- Jimmy Novak- who showed me what would happen if I stayed silent, and what would happen if I spoke up. I could write him a letter telling him just how wrong he was. Or Sam. I could write something for Sam. But how would I ever explain to my scared, innocent, ten-year-old little brother what I'm going to do? And how could I ever use a few paragraphs to tell him why I don't have a choice? I could write it to my dad, using this as a white flag and an admission to everything he was right about, but I'm not going to write him a letter telling him things he already knows.

Bobby, if you're reading this, it's because the cops that found my body had enough sense to send this to your address. I'm going to kill myself.

And don't blame my dad, or yourself. Please, please don't blame yourself. I think this is going to be for the best. Because the things I have done, and the things that have been done to me, and the things I am capable of doing, they're not going to go away unless I do. I've spent too many sleepless nights wishing I was where I will be when you read this, and I'm so tired. I've spent so many hours running from this, and I can't keep running forever.

Take care of Sammy for me. Tell him I'm finally okay, and that Dad can't hurt me anymore, and that me and Mom and all the angels are looking out for him. And then you take care of him. You adopt him, and buy him Christmas presents and drive him to school when he misses the bus. You be there when he graduates and dammit, you cry a little when you see him walk up to get his diploma. You need to watch him grow up and be happy and normal because that's all he ever wanted. And I'm never going to be able to do that for him. He's worth so much more to me than I am, and there isn't anyone I'm completely willing to hand the Sammy torch to. But you're the best I've got. So don't you dare screw it up or I will come back and haunt your ass.

Do another thing for me, too. You and Sam both. Get over me. Please. I'm not worth spending the rest of your lives grieving over. Just because you're the only two people who are going to care that I shoot myself doesn't mean you have to care enough for a hundred people each. You both have lost and are going to lose a lot, so don't put me at the top of a list filled with much more important things. At the end of the day, I'm just the kid who was such a coward he would rather do this than face his fears. Don't honor that. And don't waste your time grieving.

There's not a lot of people I could write this to, but I still decided you were my best bet. And you probably don't know why. I have done nothing but push you away since you took me home from the hospital five months ago. I'm sure I must seem like I either hate your or am the most ungrateful bitch on the planet.

But you didn't care, did you? As much as I backed away and as many walls as I put up, you kept on pushing. You didn't give up, and you didn't even think about leaving or doing something my dad would do. I have a lot of experience with people who couldn't give a rat's ass about me, and somehow you managed to do just that. I'm writing this to you, and I'm giving you Sam, not because you're the only one who can read this without completely breaking down (I hope), but because I've spent ten years with a dead mother and a monster for a father, and you are the closest thing to a parent I've ever had.

I don't know exactly what's going to happen. Mom will be there, and that'll be nice. At some point tomorrow some poor person will find me and it'll probably ruin their month. I wish there was some way to apologize for that. (While we're on the subject of apologies, tell Sam I'm sorry.) But I'll be okay. I'll be safe, and maybe I'll be happy. I don't even remember what that feels like.

But I'm going to soon. So don't feel too bad. I know when people say someone's "gone to a better place" it's hard not to roll your eyes, but I think that's really where I'm going. I hope it is.

-Dean

I fold the paper in half and shove it in my jacket pocket. Pray that they find it. Pray that Bobby reads it.

The gun's already loaded. Safety's never been much of a priority in this family. This family that's going to be down to one person in a few moments. Dad's probably wondering where Sam and I are; he's probably pissed we're not back yet.

I glance at the wooden fence behind me. Blood's going to get everywhere, isn't it? It's going to look like something out of a horror movie. I laugh a little. A horror-movie death for a horror-movie life. How's that for poetic justice?

Now is the time when the angels send me a sign or something. Now's when the sky fills with light and someone comes down the stairs to tell me I'm not alone, or now is when Mom walks up and sits down next to me and tells me I need to keep on living. But she doesn't, because I don't.

I don't think of it as dying. I was dead a long time ago. This is just getting out of a life I wasn't supposed to be in, anyway. This is damage control. This is a preventative measure. This isn't suicide; that would require a person killing themselves.

I have realized I am not quite a person. I am not worth enough, and I have too much potential to become a monster.

I press the muzzle of the gun under my chin, flinching a little at the sudden coldness. God, I really am weak. I'm about to shoot myself and I'm scared because the damn gun is cold. Refusing to let anything talk me out of this, I put my finger on the trigger and stare up at the sky. You can't see very many of the stars tonight. I can't tell if there's any space up there for me to fit. I doubt there will be.

3.

The angels never came.

2.

I never got to see the Grand Canyon. I just realized.

1-

Someone in the nearest motel room starts blasting their music, loud enough to hear from the back corner of a parking lot.

Carry on my wayward son…

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You know those moments when you're writing a chapter, and you kind of stop paying attention and they story is just writing itself, and you're thinking god this is easy, but then you look up and OH CRAP DEAN WINCHESTER IS KILLING HIMSELF!? Yeah. Today is one of those days.

Please feel free to yell at me all you want in the reviews.


	20. Part Three: Uls De A Acocosahe

Chapter Twenty- Good Little Soldier- Uls De A Acocasahe

 **You know, there was a time in my life when I thought being fourteen meant I would have some sort of social life. But here I am at 9:47, sitting in the dark wearing a breakfast club shirt and writing fanfiction about suicidal monster hunters. Which is so much better than a social life.**

 **Fear not friends, for I have at least five more chapters planned which don't involve Dean actually killing himself! I'm only 99% heartless.**

 **noulis: that is definitely what would have happened.**

 **glitterjewel: mine too. Mine too.**

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway: the fact that you think I even have the potential to be a Moffat says a lot. Thank you so much!**

 **Not very triggering chapter, so instead of warnings a few things you should probably know. First, the title is Enochian for "end of an era," according to the first enochian translating site I found. Technically it translates to "the end of a time" but it's the best I could do. Second, to make up for all the terrible things I have done so far, this chapter is guest starring Castiel and season 11 Dean. I hope that is a good apology gift?**

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I freeze, my finger still shaking on the trigger. This can't be a sign. Angels don't exist.

There'll be peace when you are done…

But it's Mom's song. That was the song she sang whenever she had a spare moment. I think it got stuck in her head the first time she heard it and decided never to leave. Mom was always singing it, or humming it, or blasting it when it came on the radio. And I saw her once before, when she told me they do exist…

Lay your weary head to rest…

No. No, this is just a coincidence. Coincidences don't just happen coincidentally, says the part of me that's spent the past ten years not taking anything at face value. It's Mom's song. Maybe she's trying to tell me something.

Or maybe not.

Don't you cry no more.

You know, the lyrics don't really have much of a "keep on living" vibe. And it's Mom's song; she could be trying to tell me I should go be with her.

That's all I've ever wanted. At the end of the day, I just want my mom. So I have to die to see her again. Just means I get to leave my dad and this godforsaken planet behind, too. Yeah. I put the gun back under my chin.

Three.

Two-

"Dean, are you sure this is right?" a gravelly voice says from across the parking lot. Shocked, I'm about to open my mouth to respond when someone else does it for me.

"Yeah, I'm positive, the song's playing. Come on, I'm over here."

A few seconds later two men run around a car and into view. One of them is wearing a trench coat, which makes him look kind of like a drug dealer, and his eyes are perfectly blue. Like Jimmy Novak's. And the second guy is obviously a hunter. I stare at them, having absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do. The hunter runs toward me. Oh. Dad must know him. Leave it to him to find a way to deprive me of dying, too.

"Hey, kid, put the gun down for a second," he says. Trench Coat stands awkwardly behind him. "You've gotta listen to me."

"Who the hell are you?" I manage to ask. I lower the gun a little, but I don't put it down. I don't know if I can."If you're one of Dad's friends, you probably shouldn't be. Just a warning. He killed the last friend he had tracking a werewolf."

He laughs a little. "No, trust me, I'm the opposite of that son of a bitch's friend. Um, I'm…" he trails off and glances over his shoulder. "Cas," he says. "Space?"

Cas looks around like he just snapped out of a daydream. "Right. Sorry." He walks back behind a car. "Baby in a trench coat," the hunter mutters, and turns back to me.

"If you're trying to talk me out of this, I'm not listening to a random stranger. I know you think you're doing me a favor, but this is really my only way out."

"Kid, I'm a little more than a stranger. Cas over there is an angel. Yeah, like the kind you refuse to believe in. And he helped me get back here. I'm you."

I stare at him blankly. This is the best lie Dad has come up with to get me back, by far. "You're me," I deadpan.

He sighs and sits down in front of me, taking off his jacket as he does so. Then he lifts up his shirt.

I almost throw up. Worthless, etched across his stomach, a little more faded than it is now, but still the same lines. Traced over a few times, even. The same scars. I slowly set the gun next to me and cross my arms over my stomach. He's me. I live. I can't think of why I live, when there's so many more reasons to die right now, but I do. Something inside me shifts a little. I live. Which means I find a reason. That there might be a light at the end of this ten year tunnel that never went anywhere. Then he takes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.

"I know," he says softly "that you finished writing that less than five minutes ago, and I know it's in your pocket because you're hoping they're going to have the decency to send a teenager's suicide note to the address you wrote on the front."

"You probably know a lot about me," I whisper. He's me. He's Dean Winchester. I've seen everything.

"Yeah. I guess you could say I do. I know that you don't end here."

"I could."

"You could."

"It's for the best. Dad's not ever going to get off my ass, and Sam doesn't need someone like me, and if you're me than you know I'm a nervous friggin' wreck and I have to die to get a moment of peace and quiet."

He puts his hands on my shoulders, the way I always do for Sammy when he's hurt or something. "If you're me you know that's not completely true. You can stand up to him. You do. And then you go and Bobby adopts you and things get better. I mean, not end-of-a-Disney movie better. You still go through a lot of hell. But you know what else you do? Save the world. Watch your brother graduate Stanford law school. Drive around the country in that car." He points to the Impala on the other side of the parking lot. "And a helluva lot more. Look, I know there's not a light at the end of the tunnel right now. Believe me. And if I'm gonna be honest, the flashbacks? The nightmares? They don't completely go away. But you know what? You're gonna be okay. Not great, not fantastic, but… okay. That idiot's got your back." He jerks a thumb towards Cas. I laugh and realize I've been crying the entire time.

"You mean it?" I say. I can't really think of anything else. I'm still skeptical I'm going to make it to my eighteenth birthday. And I know I'm not world-saving material. I mean, I'm sitting in the corner of a parking lot killing myself. It's pathetic. It's weak. It's everything Dad says I am.

"I mean it. And Dean?"

I look up. He's on the verge of tears.

"You're not. I promise. You're not what he says you are."

Yes I am, I think, but then I stop. There's not much I know, but I do know there are scars on my stomach that spell out exactly what I am. I also know that there's someone sitting in front of me with the same scars telling me I'm not. So who am I supposed to believe here? I can't just change everything I think in a few seconds because me from the future says something, but I can't keep living and thinking the way I do.

I'm not what he says I am.

I'm just starting to convince myself I didn't deserve what I went through. How am I supposed to convince myself of that, too?

The other me pulls his jacket back on. "Wait, you're leaving?" I ask.

"You need to do this yourself," he replies. "Besides, I've got a date."

"Hold on. How do you know I'm not just gonna pick up the gun again?"

"Because I exist. You'll be okay, Dean." He smiles a little as Cas walks up behind him and wraps an arm around the other me's shoulders. The streetlight behind me flashes, and I swear I can make out the shadow of wings on the motel wall. "Carry on," he says, and they walk out of sight.

"That was very inspirational," I hear Cas' low voice say.

"I'm an inspirational person," the other me replies.

"Who's your date with?"

There's a few moments of silence. "I thought it was obvious."

I don't hear a real answer. And when I run out to see them again, they're gone. Vanished like they were never there.

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You're not what he says you are.

I still don't believe it. I can't believe it. It feels like the rug's been pulled out from under my feet, and yeah I hated the rug and I wished it would burn in hell, but if it's gone I won't know what to do with myself because there's a good chance it's the only thing separating me from a bottomless pit. I pace the asphalt in front of the gun, flinching a little every time a car whizzes by on its way out of or into town. I've never been good at convincing myself of anything. Every belief I made for myself was so flimsy. I guess I'm just too used to having my hopes crushed to put much effort into them.

You're not what he says you are.

There's a gun literally two feet away from me. I was so close to ending it all, to seeing Mom again, to escaping. And then her song came on. And then an angel showed up. The exact thing I can't let myself believe in showed up. And, allegedly, he's watching over me. Mom was right.

Sam was right, too. When was the last time I made my own decision? Dad runs my life. I used to think it was his threat and my need to protect Sam that turned me into his puppet, but I get it now. It's me. It's me being too scared of the consequences, whether they be good or bad, to cut the ties that should've been cut a long time ago.

You're not what he says you are.

Except I am. What I'm doing? It's pathetic and weak. I'm killing myself. It's the coward's way out. I'm not even doing it with any resignation. I shouldn't have let that song stop me. I should be dead. Just where Dad and the rest of the world wants me. He wins. He was always going to win.

You're not what he says you are.

The thought of Dad winning makes me feel sick. "You bastard," I say out loud. It helps a little. I keep talking. "You won, you drunk son of a bitch. Aren't you happy? You finally beat me- well, not that you haven't done that plenty already. You've finally convinced me on just how worthless I am. Good job. Round of applause for the worst father of the year. I'm gonna kill myself, just like you've always wanted. Gee, it must be like Christmas for you. It took you ten years, but you finally gaslighted me into thinking I'm nothing."

Convinced. Gaslighted.

You're not what he says you are.

I stop pacing and stare wide-eyed at the neon lights above the motel. It's all him, isn't it? Everything. How could it take me so long? How could it take me ten years to figure out that everything he told me I was, it was all just him telling me things? He wasn't showing me what I was; he was convincing me.

You're not what he says you are.

Ten years I've been thinking I'm worthless. And pathetic. And useless. And weak. And none of that was because I was, it was because Dad kept telling me I was. I'm not what he says I am. I'm the opposite. I take a deep breath and let it sink in a little more. I'm not what he says I am. I drop to the ground and put my head in my hands. Sam is right; I don't make choices for myself, not because I can't, but because I never thought I could. It ends here. All those years of abuse I didn't deserve, and thinking I'm something I'm not, it ends here.

And something so much better starts here. Something that's going to end with me coming back and telling a scared almost-fifteen-year-old who just wants to die that he's not what his terrible dad says he is. There's angels and there's a light at the end of the tunnel and for the first time there's half a hope that something's going to go my way.

I pick up the gun and walk back towards our room.

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There's a pay phone outside. I fish some spare change out of my pocket and dial 911, knowing it's going to take at least ten minutes. It's a pretty big town, and their police force isn't the most organized, judging by the way they were when we went to pick up the case files.  
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" asks a woman on the other end.

"There's a guy who's wanted in about forty different states staying at the Motel 6 on Evergreen street," I say. "His name is John Winchester."

"Okay. We'll get there as soon as we can. Are you in any danger?"

"Not anymore," I reply, and hang up. Then I walk back to our room, swinging the keys around my finger.

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Dad hasn't even noticed how long I've been gone. "Where's your brother?" he asks gruffly.

"Probably on a bus back to Kansas by now."

He stands up, a move that used to intimidate me. "He's what."

"And I'm going to be, too. Just came to get our stuff."

"I'm gonna kill you, you little-"

I point the gun at him. He freezes. "The cops are on their way, and I don't think a dead body will help your case. Have a seat." I gesture with my gun to his chair. "You know, you still scare the living crap out of me. And looking at you, it's taking everything in me not to just do whatever you tell me. But that just proves my point."

"Which is?" he snarls.

"That you spent my entire life calling me worthless, and doing everything you could to make me feel that way. But guess what? I'm not. I'm worth a helluva lot more than you."

"What makes you think that?"

"You know what I did, after Mom died?"

"Became a pain in my ass."

"I grew up. Way faster than I was supposed to. And I raised Sam."

"I raised Sam."

"Really? Where were you? No, I'm the one who raised Sam. I'm the one who took care of him, who went through all the hell you gave me to protect him. I'm the one who had to steal food when you didn't leave us with enough cash, I'm the one who was there every time you weren't, I'm the one who raised him. And you know what else I did? I grieved, and I moved on. Sure, I still miss her like hell, but I know Mom's gone. I've accepted that. But you? Look at yourself. I know everyone has their own ways of dealing with tragedy, but spending almost eleven years drunk, dragging your kids across the country to hunt monsters? That's not healthy. And it's kind of pathetic. Most people would just see a grief counselor or something."

"You don't remember her like I do. You can't come in here and pretend-"

"You know what else is unhealthy? Hitting your kid when he didn't do anything wrong. Tell me honestly, Dad. Did putting me in the hospital twelve times make you feel better? Did raping me make it easier to make it through the week?"

He sits in stunned silence.

"ANSWER ME," I shout. "DID IT?"

"Yeah, it did. Still does. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"You know what that makes you? A twisted bastard, for one thing. But it makes you more pathetic than anyone else I can think of. I'm gonna have nightmares about the crap you did to me for the rest of my life, and I bet that makes you happy. But you know what else? I'm so much stronger than you. Because every time you pushed me down I came back up just a little bit better. And now here I am." I smile emotionlessly and take another step towards him. "I realized something today. I'm not the worthless one. I'm not pathetic, or weak, and I don't deserve to die. That's all you."

"Dean," he says. "I'm sorry."

I laugh. "You're sorry? Bandaids don't fix amputated limbs, you bastard. You want to apologize, do it to the four-and-a-half-year-old kid who has no idea why his dad, the one person he knew he could always look up to and always depend on, is hitting him when all he did was try and take care of his brother. You get your lazy, psychopathic ass out of the three hundred and fortieth hotel you've stayed at and go find a way to apologize to the seven-year-old who's lying on the bathroom floor trying to figure out what just happened and why someone who used to tell him he loved him just took everything from him. Because sorry worked for them. But it stopped working when I realized that your apologies are about as empty as the hole where your heart should be. I don't want you to say sorry, because you never meant it. And you sure as hell don't mean it now."

"So why don't you kill me? Stop wasting time with speeches. Do it. Or are you too scared?"

"I've killed a man who did a lot less than you under your orders. But I'm not going to stoop to your level. I'm not going to kill you. I am going to see you in court, you piss poor excuse for a human being, where I'm going to tell everyone there what the great John Winchester can do to an innocent kid. And I am going to see you behind bars, where you belong, exchanging murder techniques with the other inmates." A siren blares just outside our window. "Oh, look, the fuzz. Right on time."

Someone bangs on the door. I open it. In a blur that I don't stop and pay attention to, Dad is dragged out of the room, cuffed, and thrown in the back of a car. One of the officers pulls me out of the chaos.

"Hey, if being wanted in almost every state except yours isn't enough to arrest him, I've got a list of other things."

"Like what?" he asks.

"Child neglect, abuse, and pornography, sexual assault, credit card fraud, impersonating an officer, identity theft, tampering with crime scene evidence, a boatload of theft, illegal weapon possession, out-of-date license plates, and a whole bunch of satanic crap that should be against the law if it isn't already."

"Christ, kid, how do you know all this?"

"I'm the guy's son." I start to walk away, but he pulls me back.

"Hey, no way. You're coming back to the station with us. I've got a few questions, and you need somewhere to spend the night. Do you have any other family?"

"Not relatives. But family, yeah. He lives in Kansas. I can't go back with you, though. My little brother ran off earlier tonight, he could be out of town by now, I have to-"

"Scrawny, about yay tall, refusing to tell anyone his name?"

"That'd be him."

"He's at the station, too. Come on."

I spend the ride over with my face pressed into the glass. The last time I was in a car, my dad spent the entire time yelling about how terrible I was, and I spent the entire time believing him. I guess this is the end of an era. We pull into the station and Sam runs out, obviously having gotten the news before we got there. I pull him into a tight hug and bury my face in his shoulder.

"We're gonna be okay," I say through a veil of tears. "Sammy. We're gonna be okay."

"I know," he whispers back. "I told you we would be."

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 **Um so I have no idea how any of that happened but it did and I'm just going to accept it and go to sleep because this legit took me three hours. It is midnight:46. I am not a fast writer. But anyway, let me know what you thought. Was my lowkey destiel moment a good apology gift?**


	21. Part Three: Seventh Amendment

Chapter Twenty One- Good Little Soldier- Seventh Amendment

I HAVE SPENT THE PAST TWO WEEKS DOING LITERALLY NOTHING BUT BINGE-WATCHING GLEE AND MAY I JUST SAY THAT KURT HUMMEL IS MY SON AND A GIFT TO THIS WORLD I LOVE HIM SO MUCH HE IS JUST PERFECTION IN A GREAT OUTFIT OKAY.

Small note about the chapter: I am very OCD about keeping things close to canon, which is why there have been no vampires in this fic (Dean didn't know vampires even existed until late season one and therefore shouldn't be in pre-canon stories) and also why I used Jimmy Novak instead of having Cas be the waiter. But I also am terrible at making up names, and Donna Hanscum is one of my faves, so she's the officer in this chapter. I know this won't bother most people, but it's one of my pet peeves when pre-canon fics have discrepancies like that, so I thought I'd give you a head's up.

JackFrost'sGirl: first of all, your username is perfection. Second, welcome to the sadness club, glad you're here!

Melody-Winchester: oh good. Glad you liked it :)

babyreaper: it would only cause an explosion if this was a Dr. Who crossover. If going back in your own time stream had the effects it does on Dr. Who in Supernatural, the Winchesters would be twice as screwed as they already are.

Trigger Warnings: PTSD, mentions of child abuse/rape, do I actually need these anymore I mean the entire story is about PTSD and child abuse/rape if you're triggered by these and you made it through 20 chapters that's your fault why do I even do this anymore idk

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The adrenaline of my rebellion is slowly wearing off and before long my legs have turned to spaghetti and I'm racing to the police station bathroom to throw up. Sammy's still sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the lobby, his face buried in a book someone gave him. The people are being pretty nice to both of us, and even though I can't completely trust them it's a good change from living with Dad for the past three weeks.

I guess I could have thought this through a lot more before I acted. Calling Bobby would've been a good idea, and waiting for him to get from Kansas to Ohio before I got my legal guardian arrested. There's a whole list of things I should have considered and done before I grabbed a gun and stood up to Dad like that. But I don't know, when your future self and a probably-gay angel show up and stop you from committing suicide, you kind of just have to go with it. So now Sammy and I are here, at a random police station in southern Ohio, drinking crappy coffee and trying to figure out where to go from here.

One of the officers walks up to me and sits down as she pulls her blonde hair out of its ponytail and flicks off her radio. "So, guys," she starts, "you got names? Mine is Donna."

"Um… I'm Phil, and that's Don," I say.

She laughs a little. "Either your parents were die-hard Everly Brothers fans, or you're lying. And I'm pretty convinced it's the second one."

I look down and smile a little. My legs are still bouncing like crazy; they haven't stopped since we got to the station. "I'm Dean. That's Sam."

"Not Sammy," Sam mumbles without so much as glancing up from the book he's reading. He points in my direction. "Only he gets to call me that."

"Okay. Well, Dean, I'm supposed to ask you a few questions. It's nothing too serious, mostly just some basic stuff, yeah?"

"I guess."

"Okie-dokie. First up: are you one of those pop stars who only has one name, or do you have a last name, too?"

"Winchester. Like the mystery house."

"Dean Winchester. Great. How old are you?"

"Fourteen and a half. My birthday's in January."

"Do you have an exact date?"

"You know, I kind of forgot. Birthdays aren't really a priority in my family."

"Any other family members besides your old man?"

"My mom died in a… house fire when I was four. There's no one else that I know of."

She nods quietly, obviously trying to think of something comforting to say, then decides to just move on with the questions. "I'm assuming you don't live at the Motel 6."

"Well, not that specific Motel 6. More like a steady stream of them since the fire. We've never stayed in one place for more than three months. My dad travelled a lot for his work."

"Do you know what that was?"

"Freelance journalist," I spout. Monster hunter isn't much of a job.

"Great. Sammy- sorry, Sam- how old are you?"

"Ten."

"Gosh, that's double digits! You're practically a grown-up!"

Sam just nods. I can tell he's still trying to process everything that's happened. I'm not even able to start yet. The past six months have been a whirlwind for me, and the dust has barely started to settle. We're going to figure something out, I'm sure, and things will probably fall into place, but right now I feel like someone kicked a puzzle across the floor and I'm stuck looking for all the pieces and putting them back to create some sort of picture. And I don't even have the box for reference. I tell the officer that he's not much of a talker, though that's the opposite of the truth, and she just nods.

"Seems like neither of you would want to talk much, after living with a guy like that."

We fall into silence, but she doesn't leave. I'm half grateful that there's someone else there, and half paranoid because I've spent my entire life not trusting anyone, but especially not trusting law enforcement. After about ten minutes of staring into my empty styrofoam coffee cup, I ask if there's a phone I can use. Before anything else happens, I need to make sure Bobby knows we're here. Then Sammy and I need somewhere to stay for the night. Then I need to make it through the next few days until Bobby comes without acknowledging what happened a little less than an hour ago, and hopefully without having a panic attack or flashback or anything. Which is turning out to be pretty hard for me, considering I'm on the verge of both right now.

I dial the number to his landline, then remember that it's well after midnight and the only calls he would even think about answering are the ones that come into the kitchen. I pull a slip of paper out of my back pocket that has the numbers for his FBI, police, and park ranger supervisor numbers listed. I pick FBI; it's the one he's most likely to answer. FBI means big stuff, like demons and pagan gods. Sure enough, he picks up on the second to last ring.

"This is Superintendent Smith of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he greets, voice low. Obviously I woke him up.

"It's me. We're in Lima Ohio," I say.

"Dean?"

I swallow hard and look down. "Do you still have those adoption papers?"

"What the hell happened to you and your brother? I've been looking everywhere for you idjits, I have every hunter in the country looking for you! I thought you were dead! Or werewolf food!"

"No, Dad came back, and I panicked and went with him. It's okay now, though. He just got arrested and we're at the police station. We're okay. Mostly."

"I'm getting in my car. I'll be there in two days; d'you have somewhere to stay?"

"They're figuring something out."

"Christ, Dean. I was worried sick about you."

I say goodbye and hang up. It takes me a few minutes to realize why that sounded so weird to me; no one's ever really worried about me. Sure, teachers have been a little concerned when I miss two straight weeks of school and show up with bruises up and down my arms, and Sam's waited up for me to come home from a hunt, watching the motel room door like a hawk, but no one's ever actually said that. That they're worried about me. That they care. I sit back down next to Sam and wonder if he really means it, wonder if anyone can really mean something like that when they're talking to someone like me.

Donna isn't there anymore. She's deep in conversation with a guy in a suit. He starts walking towards us, despite her obvious attempts to stop him, and stands in front of me. I shrink back in my seat a little; old habits. Most of the men in suits I've met were either asshole teachers or Dad's friends.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I know it's a little soon, but we were wondering if you were planning on pressing charges against your father."

Sam nods furiously. I stare at the floor. "I mean," I start slowly, walking on thin ice. "Don't you already have enough stuff against him to land him in prison for a while?"

"With the charges we already have, the most we could sentence him to is three years and probation. We can't legally convict him for anything he did to you unless you speak in court."

"Oh." The thought of suing Dad had never even occurred to me. Telling Bobby about everything that's happened to me is one thing; telling a judge and jury is a whole different thing. They'd need evidence, I'd need a lawyer… I would have to tell a court house full of people secrets I've been keeping since I was four. I can't do that. Suddenly I feel like punching something. Everything I've been through, and Dad's not even going to be locked up for that long. That's not fair.

"You don't have to give us an answer now," the man says before he turns and walks briskly back down a hallway.

I yawn, and suddenly the four days of no sleep and the stress of the past few hours hits me like a wall of tired bricks. My eyelids feel like they have anvils strapped to them. It's been one of the longest nights of my life. And I know that none of my problems have really gone away, that everything's going to be here waiting for me tomorrow. Honestly I can't bring myself to care right now. I lean my head back against the puke-green wall and close my eyes, drifting off almost immediately.

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I run through a forest, being chased by something that I can't recognize. It's big, though. And dangerous. Branches scratch my arms and legs as I push through the undergrowth down paths no one has used in years, trying to get to a place the thing can't find me in. Nothing seems to be working.

Suddenly a pair of hands grabs me and pulls me out of the forest, like it was never there in the first place, and into an empty library. I look up; it's Mom. She smiles at me, all soft and blurry edges, and runs a hand through my hair.

"I'm so proud of you, Dean," she whispers.

"What's there to be proud of?" I can't help but reply. "So he goes to jail for a few years. He'll just come back even more angry than before."

"No, not that. You put that gun down, all by yourself. I'm so glad. You don't belong here with me. Not yet."

"That wasn't me. That was future me."

"All he did was talk. You didn't have to listen." She pulls me into a hug, and I bury my face in her shoulder. She smells like smoke and shampoo. "Dean, you're so brave."

"No, I'm not," I mumble.

"Yes, you are. I'm your mother, you have to listen to me. You're the bravest man I know. Don't forget that. Ever."

"Okay."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

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"Hey, Dean, wake up."

I blink my eyes open and drowsily stare at Donna.

"I talked to the folks here, and they said you and Sam can come stay with me for the next few days. Till your uncle gets here. Is that okay?"

I just nod. I want to go back to Mom. Where is she? Still half-asleep, I glance around the station lobby and look for her. She's not here. I stand up, almost tripping on air about five times, and follow Donna to her car. Sammy is just as tired as I am, if not more, and he falls asleep with his head in my lap on the drive back to Donna's house. I carry him into the living room and put him on one of the couches, yawning so hard I almost dislocate my jaw. Donna brings in a couple blankets.

"You're sure this is okay?" I mumble as I fall onto the other couch. "That we're staying here…"

"Of course it is, sweetie," she replies. "Hey, you awake enough to listen?"

I push myself onto my elbows. "Yeah."

"I might be gone when you wake up. The number for the station is on the kitchen counter. Call me and I'll come get you. There'll be something for breakfast in there too, you can help yourself."

"Thanks," I say, knowing I probably won't remember anything in the morning.

"Sure thing."

I lay back and drift off to sleep, hoping Mom waited for me.

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If anyone has any advice or information on how to write the court scene, I have absolutely no idea how to write one or even really how they work.


	22. Part Three: Last Time I Wore a Suit

Chapter Twenty Two- Good Little Soldier- the Last Time I Wore a Suit

First of all, a huge thanks to Nikki Ozera-Winchester for helping with the court scene coming up! Her story is amazing and definitely go check it out and yeah it's good.

Second, I'm so sorry I never update! I've been crazy busy, between theater camp and practicing for theater camp and school supply shopping and tons of stuff. I have like 17 different things to rehearse and prepare for and writing has just been dropped lower and lower on my priority list. But my goal is to have this story done by October, so I'll be updating more often I promise. Thanks for being so patient!

Trigger warnings: PTSD, mentions of sexual abuse, flashbacks, John Winchester's A+ parenting skills, my complete inability to write a court scene

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I try and think back to all the times I'd actually worn a suit. A few school dances. More than a few times I'd pretended it was take your child to work day even though every day was take your child to work day for me. Christmas church services when Mom was still alive and the first Christmas after she wasn't. Mom's funeral.

I don't really know how I got here; sitting in the backseat of Bobby's car on the way to the courthouse with Sam holding onto me like he's six again. The whole thing was kind of a blur. First I said I was pressing charges against Dad, but then I actually talked to him and decided against it. Bobby showed up the next day and said he was pressing charges, which was way better for everyone except the lawyers. Also, they wouldn't let him adopt Sammy and me until he basically threatened them at gunpoint. Then they needed to take pictures of my scars for evidence, which took two weeks because I kept having panic attacks and sprinting out of the room and throwing up and crying and basically just being a nervous wreck. For a few days someone was talking about sending me to a mental hospital, but it never actually went anywhere. Then we found out that Dad's state-appointed lawyer had tracked down Martin for a witness. Martin Creaser, the guy who had talked his way out of eight first-degree murder charges, three of which weren't even his. Then Sam had a breakdown in the middle of a grocery store and we had to call an ambulance.

So basically things haven't actually gotten better and it doesn't seem like they're going to be even after the trial. But, you know, at least Dad isn't beating me up every night. And at least I'm technically not even his kid anymore. Silver linings, I guess.

The drive is a lot shorter than I thought it would be. We pull into the courthouse, and Sam's iron grip on my shoulder tightens as Bobby takes the key out of the ignition and twists around to look at us.

"You two ready?" he says in a low voice.

"No," Sam and I reply in unison.

"Sam, you don't have to go in-"

"Yes I do. What if Dean freaks out?"

I bite my lip and look down at him. God, he's adorable. "I'm gonna be okay…" I tell him, trying to convince myself it's not a bald-faced lie.

"I'm still coming in with you." Sam's face scrunches up with determination.

We get out of the car and walk up the cold marble steps to the courthouse. I know that no matter what, Dad's going behind bars, but if we lose then it means I was wrong. Maybe not really, but that's how it feels. If we lose this case, it means that he was right. That whatever reasons he had actually could be justified and that I should have just kept my mouth shut. If he wins, then he wins. I shove my hand in my pocket and run a finger over the folded sheet of paper that's in there. My suicide note. I don't even know why I kept it, but somehow it's managed to end up in my pocket since the night I wrote it.

If he wins, he wins.

So I just have to hope to God that he loses.

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I don't understand any of what happens, despite all the late-night crime show watching I've been doing. And my mind's been reeling since I saw Dad escorted in. The orange jumpsuit suits him a little too well. It's not that I'm still afraid of him, I've realized. It's that I'm not afraid of him. For almost eleven years I got used to being afraid of him, to taking his orders, to flinching whenever he walked into the room. That's all gone now. And I can't say I don't like being able to sleep with both my eyes closed, but at the same time it feels like someone's pulled a rug out from beneath me, and I'm trying to find my footing at the bottom of this bottomless pit everyone else is calling freedom. It doesn't feel like freedom; not that I'd know. If this is freedom, then I don't know why the hell we spend all night lighting fireworks every fourth of July. It ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Suddenly I hear the voice of Bobby's lawyer calling my name. "I'd like to call Dean Winchester to the stand."

Freezing, I look up across the sea of eyes that are all fixed on me and try to find a pair that recognizes me. Bobby gives me a reassuring smile from the other side of the room. Sam pushes me up. I wonder why I ever thought I was alone in this fight. I stand up and walk to the witness stand, putting a hand on the Bible and wishing I believed what it says as I swear to tell the truth.

Bobby's lawyer says, "Now, Dean, is it true that you have been living with John Winchester for the past fifteen years?"

I say, "Yes. I have."

"And in this time living with him, has he ever wrongfully hit or abused you?"

I watch Dad's expression. It's the most controlled form of rage I've ever seen. "Yes," I say quietly.

"Is it true that you were admitted to Sioux Falls General Hospital last December because of the abuse?"

I stare at the floor of the box. "He tried to kill me."

"Are these your scars?"

He shows me one of the pictures they took of my back. They look like crime-scene photos of a corpse. Too high exposure, the red standing out in incredibly stark contrast to the rest of my skin. I stare at it for a while, chewing on my lip and trying to look at it as just a picture. "They are," I say quietly.

"Okay then. I'm almost done. Can you answer a few more questions?"

I nod, waiting for him to take the picture back. He doesn't. My heartbeat picks up speed.

"Now, Dean, how many times has the defendant left you and your brother alone for one or more nights?"

"You want a real number?" I ask.

"If possible."

I used to keep a journal, when I was younger. I stopped when I realized the only one reading my thoughts would be me, and whenever I read it I just got depressed as hell. But I ended up keeping it because in the back I'd draw a tally mark every time I waited up past midnight for Dad to come home. Every night it was up to me to find something for dinner, and to make sure Sam did his homework and brushed his teeth and went to bed on time. Every goddamn night I spent worrying and hoping that this was the night, this was the fight John Winchester finally lost against the supernatural. And I remember every one of those tally marks. "Nine-hundred seventy-four," I say, glaring down at my father. His face has changed to a mix of surprise and panic. I can't help but love it a little. "We were on our own for nine-hundred and seventy-four nights."

The jury gasps a little. It dawns on me that to them, I'm just a sad story they can tell their husbands and wives at dinner tonight. And that pisses me off. I have a story, and it's freaking terrible, but I'm not a story. I add that to the list of things to tell myself. I'm not worthless, and I'm not pathetic, and I'm not alone, and I'm not Dad's attack dog, and I'm not my story.

Bobby's lawyer said something. "Can you repeat the question?" I ask.

"During your time at Sioux Falls General, your surgeon found evidence of prolonged sexual abuse as well as physical. Is it true that you were sexually abused or assaulted?"

I nod. The jury gasps again. They are very easily surprised. They have a lot of faith in humanity. I don't have any doubt that will change before the trial's over.

"Dean, can you give your answer out loud? For the transcript?"

"Yes, I was. Raped." The words have an echo. I can't tell if it's bouncing off the walls of the dead-silent courtroom or the sides of my ribcage.

"Is the person who did it in this room?"

"People," I correct. The peanut gallery gasps again. It's like they're listening to me underwater and can only come up for air when I say something unexpected. Jesus, I think one of them's crying.

"Who are they?"

"John Winchester and Martin Creaser."

Dad's lawyer stands up. "Objection!"

"Denied," the judge says.

"Are you saying that the defendant's witness also sexually assaulted you?" Bobby's lawyer asks.

I nod, then remember to say something. "Yeah. More than once."

"Thank you, Dean. I think that's all we need to hear from you."

I manage to stand, even though my legs are shaking uncontrollably, and make it back to my seat just in time to collapse into a hug from Sam. His eyes are watering. So are mine. So are Bobby's. So are the jury's.

We could fill a damn ocean.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%The trial is over an hour later. We all have to wait while the jury makes up their minds. I nearly sprint out the doors of the courthouse, taking deep gulps of the early evening air. I'm on the verge of a panic attack, or flashback, or something bad, and the throngs of people rushing down the stairs aren't helping at all. Taking deep breaths isn't working, mainly because I physically can't do it. I hear a car horn in the distance, and suddenly

A car horn honks suddenly, piercing through the motel room door. Dad's face twists up into a smile and he stares at me, sitting at the tiny desk. I brace myself for whatever's about to come. "Martin's here," he says in a low, drawn-out voice. There's a knock on the door, and-

"Dean!"

I look down and then realize I'm sitting down. How the hell am I sitting down? I'm leaning against something. A car. Bobby's car. Bobby's kneeling in front of me and staring at me with the most concern I've ever seen in an adult's face.

"Christ, Dean, what happened?"

"I don't know. The trial… and it was crowded… car horns-"

"Are you okay now?"

"Can we go home?" I ask. With all my protesting and denying, Bobby's house is inescapably home. And it's the only place I want to be right now. Home, watching movies with Sam and sleeping in the same bed every night and the constant sound of phones ringing and just… home. I want to be there.

Sam smiles a little from his seat on the hood of the car. I smile back.

"We can go as soon as John the bastard gets what's comin' to him," Bobby says, reaching out a hand to help me up. I take it. We walk back into the courthouse and wait to see what happens.

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I won.

It was always some sort of twisted game Dad and I were playing. And he was holding all the aces for most of my life. But I won. And for once, the scale is equal. Maybe even tilted in my favor. I don't even know what to do with that much power. He's being escorted out the door when I stop and stand in front of him.

"Two life sentences," I say, fixing my eyes on his. "Makes sense, considering you've been living a double life for so long. You know, pretending to be Sam's dad, and actually being an asshole."

"Don't talk to me that way," he says. Our eyes are still locked.

I hold out my arm for a handshake. "See you in hell," I say.

"Is this you forgiving me?" he replies incredulously, taking my hand. I'm the one with the firmer grip.

"Oh god no. You think I'm forgiving you? This is me moving on. I'm done being yours. In fact, you're not even legally my parent anymore. Bobby is. And he's doing a damn good job of it."

"You deserved everything I gave you," he spits.

"You deserve everything you're getting."

"Get out of my sight."

"You're really not in any position to make orders, sir." I add as much sarcasm to the last word as I possibly can. "I think you're gonna like prison. Maybe you'll find some monsters to hunt. Here's a tip; look in the mirror. You'll always find one there."

He looks down. I smile coldly and turn, my footsteps echoing through the marble room like gunshots.

Dad-John- gets led out by a pair of cops and is shipped off to prison. He is locked up. They throw away the key.

I won.

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Light 'em up up up, light 'em up up up…

Please review, more to come very soon!


	23. Part Three: Throwback

Chapter Twenty Three- Good Little Soldier- Throwback

 **Guess who's back already? I told you I'd be updating more :)**

 **babyreaper: the other lawyer didn't question Dean for a very important reason and that reason is that I forgot. Like I said, I'm not very good at court scenes, but I tried my best.**

 **HeavyMetal-Chic: Clearly I didn't research for the chapter enough. Sammy would be very disappointed in me. Thanks for telling me, though. I'll see if I can edit it in.**

 **Also, I low-key have a girlfriend now, and if you don't have a girlfriend I highly recommend getting one. They are very nice things to have you can text them 24/7 and throw french fries at pigeons with them. The only downside I have seen so far is that every time you pass a trash can with her you will told it's a statue of you or your clone or your twin brother Kevin. But otherwise they are generally very good things to have I would recommend going to your nearest English class and picking one up.**

 **Trigger warnings: mentions of past child abuse, PTSD, mentions of suicide, flashbacks, John Winchester is the biggest asshole in the world**

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I sit with my back pressed against the cool glass of the sliding door to the hotel room balcony, staring at the few stars that shone through the lights of the city. It's approaching three am, and I haven't slept in at least two days, but every time I so much as blink I wake up in a cold sweat. Sitting outside in the cold air keeps me awake longer, so I've been here watching the lights in the buildings go out one by one since Sam fell asleep.

I wouldn't have heard or seen Bobby come out if I hadn't been leaning against the door. I flinch at the sudden movement behind me and jump back towards the edge of the balcony as he walks to sit down next to me. He gives me a sad look. I roll my eyes.

"What're you doing out here, kid? You should be asleep by now."

"Does it matter?" I reply, bringing my knees up to my chest.

"It does to me."

"Sleep isn't exactly the easiest thing for me. Never has been."

He sighs. "I know the feeling."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, staring out at the city moving beneath us. For the first time in two weeks, I realize just how insane everything has been leading up to this. I was this close to killing myself, and then me from the future came and talked me out of it. And now my dad's in prison. Forever, basically. None of this makes any sense. None of it.

"Is time travel real?" I ask quietly.

"Probably. Everything's real if you try hard enough."

I nod and run a hand through my hair. "He never apologized," I realize out loud.

"What?"  
"John. Eleven years, and I won the case, and the last thing he did was tell me I deserved it. He didn't even pretend he was sorry. He just… jesus. He thought I was forgiving him, and he never apologized."

"I can't believe I used to trust that son of a bitch," Bobby replies.

I pick at one of the scars on my wrist. At this point, I don't know if it's from Dad, or me, or a ghost. I have too many scars that came from too many different people. And most of them aren't going to fade. Not completely, anyway. "I thought this was going to fix things," I say, staring at the lines and bruises on my forearm. "If I could get rid of Dad, I could get rid of everything else, too, you know? It's all still there, though. I still can't sleep, and I'm still not very good and functioning when I'm awake."

Bobby sighs and wraps his arm around my shoulders. I flinch a little, but thankfully he doesn't say anything about it. "It's not going to feel any better for a long time. You could have the perfect life after that, and it wouldn't help a damn thing. The only thing that'll really help is time. And I know, I know that sounds like greeting card crap, but the further away you get from something, the less you can see it."

I smile a little and glance up at him. The only part of the night I called the cops anyone's actually heard was the part where I stood up to Dad. I've been too confused to talk about the rest of the night; like, future me, or my almost killing myself. It's not that I've been keeping it a secret, it just hasn't come up. I'm freaking tired of secrets; if someone asks me, I'm going to tell them. But I'm not bringing it up myself. I have no idea how to explain why I was ready to blow my brains out one hour, and ready to keep living the next. The whole thing is still a blur. I can't even explain it to myself.

No one's going to bring it up if I don't, though. I glance at Bobby again. There's still part of me that's convinced he doesn't care, that he's going to end up turning into Dad. And the rest of me is still on the fence about it. He's the only adult since Mom, besides a teacher or two, who hasn't treated me like complete crap. Which is a nice change, but it doesn't mean he's the only one who's never going to treat me that way.

Either way, I'm done with glass boxes. I'm done with shoving everything inside where people can clearly see it but don't know how to point it out. "I should probably tell you everything," I start. I don't wait for Bobby's reply. "The night Dad got arrested, I- calling the cops wasn't all I did. Sam and I had a huge fight, and I said some stuff that sounded a lot like something Dad would say. And it scared the hell out of me, because I was so close to turning into him. I don't know. But Sammy left, he said he was going to go back to your place, and I just… couldn't take it. And I was about to kill myself."

"Dean…"

"It wasn't like I really wanted to. It just seemed like the best option at the time. And I don't. Want to. Anymore. But I was so close, and… some stuff happened, and I didn't. I just thought you should know. I'm fine now, seriously, I'm not going to try again."

"I'm sorry, you expect me to believe that? Dean, you tried to kill yourself!"

"No, I didn't even try. If I had I would be dead."

He shakes his head, eyes shining. "Christ. Do you have any idea how much I care about you?"

"Not really."

"I'm glad you told me."

I swipe a hand over my eyes. "Okay."

Sirens blare in the distance. I lean into Bobby and stare at the buildings in the distance. God, I'm tired. My eyes keep slowly drifting closed.

"Why don't you go to bed?" Bobby says softly. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I haven't."

"Go get some sleep. You'll be fine."

I know that he's not going to take no for an answer, so I nod and push myself up. The inside of the hotel room is so dark I can barely see the edge of my bed. I pull the covers up to my shoulders and stare across the room letting my eyes adjust until I can see the outline of Sam in the bed next to me.

This always used to help me. Watching Sam sleep. It used to be that if Sam was safe, I could convince myself that I was safe, even if Dad was right across the room. I try to match Sam's steady breathing, bet eventually I give up. I'm at the point where I'm so tired, I can't even try to sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and trace the cracks with my eyes for the sole purpose of giving them something to do besides close. Christ, what am I going to do with my life? Dad's not here for me to answer to. With Bobby here, I'm pretty sure my career as a hunter is over. What's left? Going back to school? Getting a real job? Having a real life? Weird, how those things seem more unreal than things like ghosts and demons. I guess I've had a lifetime of experience with things that don't exist, and only a couple months' with things that do. My eyes start to drift close; I'm starting to worry I'm going to have to tape them open.

I'm not even really going to be taking care of Sam anymore. That's Bobby's job now. So what the hell is left for me? Dad was way more a part of my life than I'll ever be able to admit to myself, and now he's gone. It doesn't feel like someone took out one puzzle piece; it feels like they took the puzzle and gave me an entire new one that I'm already supposed to have solved. Jesus, I'm confused. And tired. And scared. More scared than I've ever been of a werewolf or Wendigo. At the end of the day, I could always convince myself that those weren't real. That this was all some sort of nightmare Mom would wake me up from in time for school. But this? How do you tell yourself that real life isn't real? My eyes close again. This time, I can't help but let them as I drift off to sleep.

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 _My back presses against rough tree bark. Dad leans close, hot coppery breath hitting my face._

 _"I should've done this a long time ago. Right after Mary died. You were always so much like her…" he pauses, and for a minute I can see him as human, but the minute passes too quickly to register. "Except she wasn't so pathetic. And she didn't deserve what she got." Dad draws back a little, fingers digging under my shirt and coming back up with my necklace._

 _Sam. God, Sam I'm so sorry._

 _"This was supposed to be mine, you know," he says softly, almost reverently. "But Sammy decided to give it to his worthless brother. All because that brother went and told him about monsters. When I specifically told him not to."_

 _Then he starts punching. And he doesn't stop._

 _I lie face-up on the forest floor, trying to get any oxygen, any at all, through my lungs. But it has to get through a split lip and under cracked and broken ribs, and air doesn't try very hard._

 _"You're worthless, Dean."_

 _"Can't… breathe…" I manage, trying to see past him to the stars. Mom used to say when you died you became one. Mom used to say a lot of things…_

 _"I don't care. Nobody cares-" he kneels down, straddling my chest "-about pathetic little Dean, who breaks every single thing he touches. Who almost let his brother die. More than once. Worthless."_

 _Dad pulls my t-shirt up over my ribs, leaving a trail of needles over the new cuts and bruises. A small, sadistic smile creeps over his face and he pulls out a knife. I whimper. He laughs. Story of my life- death, now, I guess. He leans forward, barely piercing the skin beneath my ribs. Fire shoots through me. I scream and grab his wrist, but he pins my hands above me and keeps going._

 _"Let's show everyone what you really are."_

 _Pain grips me and holds me down, screaming and shaking. Dad keeps digging in, just deep enough to turn my vision black at the edges. When I realize what he's doing, I wish he was going in deeper._

 _"Let's show everyone what you really are."_

 _"Dean!"_

 _It's Bobby. Where is he? How does he even know where I am? We're on the other side of the state. How'd he find me? It's too late, anyway._

 _"Dean, come on kid, wake up."_

I jolt awake and start to sit up, but a head rush and a tangle of sheets pulls me back down. Somehow I'm on the floor. Must've fallen off the bed. God, I can't breathe. I'm gonna throw up. I try to gesture to Bobby to move, so I can run to the bathroom, but I guess it looks like I'm having a seizure or something because he grabs my shoulders and tries to hold me down. "No-" I start, before finally mustering the energy to push past him and sprint to the bathroom.

The next few minutes are kind of a blur. I can't breathe, at all, and my vision is still screwed-up from the nightmare. At one point, I think I see Dad again, which sends me into, like, panic attack squared. When I finally adjust and come to, I'm curled into the fetal position in the middle of the hotel room floor, and Sam is running his hand through my hair. I'm soaked in sweat. My ribs hurt; I can't tell if that's from the nightmare or the puking or the not breathing or some combination of all three. They hurt like hell.

"It's okay," Sammy whispers. I pull my knees tighter into my chest. It's the only thing I have enough energy to do.

Bobby walks over and sits down next to us. I don't want to deal with the looks on their faces, and the lights are way too bright, so I close my eyes. I feel like if I open them again, the room will be spinning. Goddammit, why can't I get two hours of sleep? That's all I've ever needed.

"He'll be fine," I hear Bobby say.

I feel like throwing up again. Sam sounds so scared. "It was worse this time."

"Yeah. I know."

"Why?"

"That, I don't know. How about you go back to bed?"

"But-"

"It'll be fine, Sam. I'll stay here."

I feel Sam move behind me and start to leave. And I should let him. He needs to sleep. But all I want is my brother, no matter how selfish it is. For ten years he was the only thing keeping me sane, the only thing keeping me alive, and he's the only thing I want or need right now. He doesn't need that kind of responsibility, and I feel guilty as hell for putting it on him, but I can barely do this with him; where would I be without him? Dead. Probably because of Dad. I reach behind me until I feel his hand and hold onto it for dear life.

"Dean?" he asks, voice cracking.

I try to do the thing that's supposed to be easy, where you push air through your vocal chords and sound comes out and you move your tongue to make words, but it's not quite working. I manage something between a yes and a whimper. It sounds pathetic.

"Kid, you scared the crap out of us," Bobby says. "A few of the people down the hall, too. Are you alright?"

"My ribs hurt," I manage to groan. Sure enough, when I open my eyes, the room looks like a spinning strobe light. I close my eyes again and wait for the feeling to pass.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Sam starts to help me into a sitting position. "He tried to kill me," I mumble. "I fell off the bed."

"He what?" Bobby asks, concern spreading across his face.

"It was a drea- he tried to… uhm…" I lean into Sam's shoulder. Everything's fuzzy. I want to go home. Do I even have one of those? I don't remember. "I don't know. He tried to. How did I get over here?" I feel like I'm stuck looking at things through a backwards telescope. It's soft. Faraway. Blurry…

"Let's get you back to bed." Bobby's voice sounds like a toy voice.

"No…" I start. "'M not tired."

"Yes, you are. Come on."

"Can't go back to sleep." I feel like I'm already asleep. Actually, am I? I have no idea. I can't see anything through the telescope. "Don't want to go back to sleep."

"Nothing's gonna happen this time," toy-voice-Bobby says. I feel blankets. They're soft. Faraway. Blurry…

Black.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

"Hey. Dean. Wake up."

I crack my eyes open and wince at the onslaught of sunlight. Sam is sitting in front of me.

"We're leaving. We're gonna go back to Bobby's."

"Home," I say, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I need water. I'm a desert.

"Home," Sam replies.

Bobby walks in, and I see him smile a little when he looks at the two of us. "Sammy, why don't you go get in the car?" he asks.

Sam runs out of the room. I push myself up onto my elbows, still reeling from the bright lights.

"Morning," Bobby greets me, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I called Dr. Roberts last night. He wrote a prescription for some meds to help you sleep, and we can pick them up when we get home. Also gave me the numbers for a few therapists, which you _are_ going to go see, regardless of whether you want to or not. I'm not gonna ask about what happened last night, because I know either you'll tell me when you're ready or you're not going to be ready, and it's fine. And I'm always gonna be there. I promised it would be okay, and that you'd never have to worry about John again. I didn't just mean locking him up. I'm keeping that promise, got it? No matter what. Even if every damn night ends up just like last night. It's not because you're weak, or because you can't handle it on your own. You're one of the strongest people I know; you could do this yourself. I'm just saying you're never going to have to. Okay?"

And that's when I realize just how much different Bobby and my father are. I've been so worried they'd turn out to be one in the same, but now I'm wondering how I ever thought that was a possibility. No one's ever cared this much about anything involving me. Not since Mom. Maybe I don't need her to find what I'm looking for. "I mean… okay," I say hoarsely.

"Let's go," he replies with a warm smile.

I pull on a pair of jeans and walk with him to the car. We drive home.

I have one of those.

A home.

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A/N but please please read:

I know that there are scenes in this chapter that can be interpreted as wincest. Feel free to read them that way. Personally, I don't ship it but I know that some scenes in this chapter and in fact the whole story can be read as light wincest. And it's fine to see it like that. It's also fine to see it as normal, brotherly love. What isn't okay is hating on and tearing down people for how they choose to interpret a story, whether it be this one or Supernatural itself. There is absolutely no reason to bully another person because of how they see the subtext of a fictional character who is part of a fictional story. Ship hate is by far one of the stupidest things about Supernatural, especially when our entire fandom revolves around unconditional love and acceptance. In fact, wincest and destiel shippers have a lot more in common than either side is willing to admit. Neither 'team' deserves the hate they get for simply thinking a couple of dudes would be cute together. What I'm trying to say is, ship what you want, but don't hate other people for doing the exact same thing. I thought I should put this here because I'm really sick of the way fans that should be loving each other are picking fights with each other and I feel like a lot of this story could be up for interpretation as far as wincest/destiel goes. So far there hasn't been a problem, and let's keep it that way. Thank you for being accepting.


	24. Part Three: Kevin McCallister

Good Little Soldier- Chapter Twenty Four- Kevin McCallister

 **AHHHHHH. HIGH SCHOOL IS TERRIFYING AND AWESOME AND THAT IS ALL**

 **Trigger warnings: mentions of physical/sexual abuse, depression, all the good stuff**

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It's been a month since the trial, and things have begun to fall into something resembling a routine. I wake up at around three am and go outside because I've figured out that one, there's no point in trying to sleep, and two, it's a hell of a lot less claustrophobic when there's no walls to close in around me. I always come in and climb back into bed before either Sam or Bobby wake up. Then Sam wakes up and gets ready for school, and Bobby and I have an argument about whether or not I should enroll. He says I'm going to need it because there's not a chance in hell I'm hunting again, and I say that I would already be a year older than everyone in my class, and I can barely get out of bed in the morning as it is, and I collapse into flashbacks and panic attacks at the drop of a hat, so school is a lot of things but the right place for me isn't one of them.

Then Bobby has to go run the phones, or research something for someone, or bury a body, so I have most of the day to myself. Which is okay, most of the time. I walk around a lot. I help fix up some of the cars. Eventually Sam gets home from school, and eventually we find something for dinner. Bobby's usually there, which is weird. It's always just been Sammy and me. Then I attempt to fall asleep, and finally give up at three am.

It's not that interesting. Basically I just move between ways to distract myself from everything that's happened in the past two months, the past eight months, the past fifteen years. And it doesn't work very well. Bobby was right- it doesn't just go away. It hasn't. I'm still waiting for everything to go to hell. But at least I'm mostly safe. So I'm told.

I'm helping Sam do his homework. Well, I'm watching Sam do his homework. He's too smart for his own good. Way smarter than me, despite what he says.

Someone knocks on the kitchen door. It's not Bobby, because he has a key, and it's not a salesman or something, because on the very rare occasion they come all the way out here they use the front door. For a second I think that it must be Dad, or Martin, but for once in my life the rational part of me is actually in control. I open the door to Rufus.

"Dean," he says, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

This is the fifth time I've had to explain to a hunter who knew Dad. It's still one of the most awkward, nerve wracking subjects. "Me and Sam live here," I reply, looking down.

"Oh. Well, where's John?"

"Prison." I shove my hands in my pockets.

Rufus grimaces. "What for?"

"Bobby won't be home for another hour," I say, turning and walking back into the kitchen.

"Why is John locked up?" he asks again.

"Uh...child abuse."

Rufus stares at me, then glances towards Sam, then back at me. I stare at the ceiling.

"Christ, I didn't know…"

"It's fine. We're fine. Why're you here?"

"A man can't pay his longtime friend a visit?"

"A man, sure. A hunter, not so much."

He laughs. "Ain't that the truth. I'm tracking a wendigo, and I need backup. Everyone else's already on a case."

"He'll be home in an hour."

"Alright."

We fall into the most tense silence I've been in since the trial. I refuse to make eye contact with either Rufus or Sam, and when they finally start a conversation I leave the room.

I've been thinking a lot lately, that Dad's never going to know just how much he did to me. He'll never see that I wake up every night sweating and screaming because of what he did. That I still think everyone will treat me the way he did. He's never going to know the extent of the damage he did. If he ever found out, it would probably make is freaking day. I lay on the couch and listen to Sam and Rufus, not processing any of the words they're saying but grateful for the noise. Silence isn't a good option for me. When no one's home I usually blast music through the house, and at night I just focus really hard on Sammy breathing and the traffic on the highway.

Bobby comes back a little early and lets Rufus get him up to speed. He spends the entire conversation glancing between me and the shotgun leaning against the kitchen wall. I don't pay attention to what they say, but I see Bobby nod and Rufus leave. Bobby walks over to me.

"You and Sam gonna be okay if I leave for a few days?"

I can't help but tense up. This could be it. This could be the day he turns into Dad, leaving us for 'a few days' that turns into a few weeks and giving us 'more than enough' cash to keep us alive that turns into me getting arrested for shoplifting. But at the same time, I can't make him stay here. "It's not like we haven't been left for a few days before…" I say. It comes out a lot quieter than I mean it to.

"Dean, if you don't think you'll-"

"It's fine. Really. Just… three days."

"Three days."

"Or I'm calling the cops and then a mortician."

He laughs a little. "Okay. I suppose I don't have to tell you to take care of your brother."

"No."

A car horn blares outside. "Christ, Rufus! Give me five damn minutes!" Bobby shouts toward the kitchen door. "I'll see you Friday. You too, Sam."

"'Kay," Sammy mumbles into his math homework.

Bobby walks out the door, and I lock it behind him. I probably don't need to, as far away from anything as the house is, but I'm a paranoid person. The noise of Rufus' engine gets fainter and fainter until I can't hear it at all.

We're alone.

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 **So if you put this story into a Word doc, it's like 130 pages. Which makes it twice as long as the second-longest story I've ever written, and it's not even over yet. Mission accomplished! See you next week, and please review!**


	25. Part Three: Three Days Tops

Good Little Soldier- Chapter Twenty Five- Three Days Tops

 **Hello guys! I'm writing this at my GSA because it's the first meeting and I have no idea what to say to anyone. But it's fun. That's all that's happening in Scarlettville.**

 **seitanspawn: it is pretty short, I'm sorry! I don't have very good chapter stamina and I blame a lifetime of reading books like Maximum Ride and Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, where the chapters are less than a page half the time. I'm working on it, though!**

 **babyreaper: true story I had no idea where I was going with this until you suggested that so I owe you my firstborn child thank you so much.**

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"What's for dinner?" Sam asks from his seat at the table.

I'm in the living room out of his view trying desperately not to pass out. Bobby's only been gone about twenty minutes but I can't shake the feeling that he's not coming back. Or that he is coming back, but he'll be exactly like every other hunter I know and it'll be dad all over again. God, it hasn't even been an hour yet and I'm already having a panic attack. The next three days are going to be hell.

"Dean?" I hear Sam call. I take a deep breath and walk back into the kitchen.

"Yeah. Dinner," I say. I cross the room and open the fridge, a mixture of relief and surprise flooding through me when I see how full it is. "What d'you want?"

"Food," Sam says.

I turn to him and smile sarcastically.

Eventually I manage to make soup, which isn't impressive but also isn't stale cereal or half a piece of toast, meaning it's still an upgrade from the last time I had to make dinner for the two of us. The second we sit down, though, it hits me again; Bobby isn't sitting across from me. He's off doing the same things Dad did. Suddenly I don't have as much of an appetite.

I don't know why this is bothering me so much; it's just three days. I've done this for nearly three months before. A lot has changed, and maybe not for the better. I've walked out of the woods and into a desert. The walls are still here; I'm beginning to see them. They're more transparent than they used to be, but there they are, all four of them, built up around me like a cut scabbing over. I wait until Sam leaves to get ready for bed to dump my soup down the drain. And then I just stare at the water running out of the faucet, because at this point I will do literally anything to stop myself from thinking, literally anything to keep myself half-awake and half-asleep, because being awake means being alert and being asleep means being defenseless.

"Dean?" Sam's voice yanks me out of my head. "You've been standing there since I left. And it's been ten minutes."

"Oh."

"You look like you're gonna be sick."

 _I am sick._ "I'm fine."

He knits his eyebrows together and nods a little. "I'm going to bed."

"Okay. Goodnight." I feel like someone woke me up while I was sleepwalking. I don't know where I am or how I am or who I am. The wood on the floor is warped next to the sink.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask how you were." He crosses the floor and jumps up onto the counter, sitting cross-legged and leaning his head against a cabinet door. He's wearing one of my old t-shirts. "Bobby told me to make sure you got sleep."

I give him the worst reassuring smile in the world. "I will."

He tugs on my sleeve. "Come on."

"I've still gotta clean up. And check all the doors. And-"

"How am I supposed to make sure you get sleep if I go to sleep before you?"

I sigh and run a hand over my face. He's already got a comeback for every excuse I could throw at him; I can tell. So there's no reason to fight him, except for the fact that last time I actually tried to sleep it took him, and Bobby, and almost the paramedics to calm me down.

"It's just sleeping," Sammy says, his eyes wide. "What's the big deal?"

"I…" _am definitely not going to explain that every time I close my eyes I have nightmares about Dad raping me_ , I finish silently. Instead I just let my hands fall to my sides. "Okay," I say, and I can't decide if this is weak or strong. Because I'm facing something, but I'm sprinting away from a mile-long list of other things.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 _Bobby stands at the other end of the hallway. So much color has left his eyes that they look almost grayscale. There's a gun in his hand, and something tells me the bullets aren't silver. I take a step backward. He takes a step forward._

 _"What's going on?" I stutter out._

 _The walls grow darker. No, not darker- more opaque. Before I could almost glimpse the rooms behind them, and now the rest of the house is closed off forever. The colors swirl on the walls, adding layer upon layer of wallpaper._

 _"What do you think?" Bobby replies, every word clipped short. "Don't kid yourself, Dean. You really thought I wouldn't realize? I wouldn't open my eyes?" He starts walking toward me, and I can't move. I can't even blink. "All those promises I made. They weren't worth it. You aren't worth it. In fact…" he laughs a little "... you're not really worth anything, are you?"_

 _"What?" It's all I can say._

 _He pushes me into another room. It's a kitchen, but not the one at his house. I stare at the cabinets, and the artwork hanging above the sink, and suddenly I remember that it's Mom's kitchen. The one in Kansas; the one that burnt down. Everything looks like it's never been touched. Brand-new in a way that it shouldn't be. And it's so quiet. There isn't even a hum of electricity in the background. Just… silence. I slowly back up, towards the door, but when I turn around it isn't there. Just blue wallpaper, with more layers crawling down from the ceiling like water damage. A dripping noise pierces the silence, ear-splitting after all the quiet. I turn and watch as three red raindrops hit the tile floor, like the first steps on the surface of an untouched field of snow. They're too red. They fall too fast. I follow their path up and stare at the ceiling. I can't move again. I can't blink again._

 _It's Sammy._

 _It's my brother, he's up there, he's on the ceiling._

 _And now he's on fire. The fire is everywhere, it's on the walls, it's on the cabinets, it's in my eyes, it's in my lungs, but I can't breathe or blink or move. The fire is everywhere on Sam, it's folding in on him and he's folding in on himself and everything is folding like playing cards in the fire. Cardboard. Ink. Paper. Plastic. That's all we are._

 _There's so much fire…_

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

I shove my face into a pillow and try to muffle the scream I can feel pushing up my throat. Sam's still sound asleep across the room from me, but I still stand up on shaky legs, crossing the room to double check that he's really okay. That's all the energy I actually have. I jump back into my bed when I'm halfway back and curl into the fetal position, arms wrapping around my knees. My stomach hurts like hell.

The clock by my bed hits the four am mark. Electricity buzzes through the house. Stars start to fade and disappear as the sky turns all kinds of colors, muted by the morning fog. I don't move. I can't move, I can't even blink.

This is going to be the longest three days of my life.

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I try and get out of bed the next morning. I really do. But my stomach feels like it's on fire and my head is glued to the pillow. There's not much I can do but watch Sam get up and get ready for school. My dream from last night is still so fresh I can almost feel the heat of the fire in the kitchen, almost see the flames snaking up the walls of the bedroom. I groan and bury my head under my pillow.

"I made scrambled eggs," Sam says, sitting on the edge of my bed. He bounces a little. "You want to come have some?"

"I will later," I mumble from under the pillow.

"I'll be at school later."

"I'm really tired, Sammy." It's not a lie, not really. I'm awake, sure, and I'd sell my soul for a few more hours of sleep, but I'm sure as hell not going back to sleep.

"You slept all night. Come on; I'm gonna be late for school."

I don't say anything. Sam makes an exhasperated noise and stands up, grabbing his jacket off the floor. "I'm gonna go to the bus. Jerk."

"Bitch."

He leaves. I try not to fall back asleep. Eventually I have enough energy to get up and stumble down the stairs. The eggs are cold by now, so I throw them out and walk into the bathroom to raid the cabinets for pain meds. Bobby has an arsenal of them. I find some bottles of pills that aren't expired and I'm about to walk out when something catches my eye.

A razor. A couple of them, actually.

My fingers twitch. _Really?_ a voice inside me deadpans. _He's been gone for a day, and you're already back to square one. No wonder everyone thinks you're pathetic. You sure haven't done much to prove them wrong._

Shut up. I'm walking out, see?

 _No, you're not. What's Bobby going to be like when he comes back? Even if nothing's changed, what's Bobby going to be like in a month? A year?_

I said shut up. I'm walking out.

The phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. Usually, the phones are constantly ringing in the kitchen, but Bobby must have sent out a warning and none of them have rung since about two hours after he left. This is the phone from the hallway; only five people actually have than number. And only four of them can actually call it- I heard that Dad's not allowed to call the house. That doesn't stop me from being more than a little scared as I pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Dean." It's Bobby. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Hey. How's the hunt going?"

"It was going fine until Rufus screwed up the entire job last night."

"You could've warned me!" I hear Rufus shout in the background.

"And you could've told me you'd never shot a gun in your life," Bobby fires back. "Is Sam at school?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I left you boys enough food, right?"

I laugh. "You're kidding, right? Of course you did."

"Okay. And what about you? You holding up?"

"Yeah, I'm-" I glance back toward the bathroom door "-I'm fine. Just tired."

"Alright. Listen, I've got some people to interview. I'll be home by Friday. Of course, we might be here longer if Rufus doesn't learn how to manage a goddamn gun…"

"I swear, Singer…" Rufus says loudly.

I can't help but smile. "Friday. Okay."

"I'll call you tomorrow, Dean."

The line goes dead. I stand there holding the phone for another five minutes before I actually put it back on the wall. Then I walk towards the kitchen; it's twelve-thirty and I haven't eaten anything in at least twenty-four hours.

I close the bathroom door on the way.

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Sam gets home about three hours later and immediately walks toward the fridge, mumbling hi to me. I'm sitting on the couch, staring at a book but not reading it. Looking at words helps distract me from the fact that I'm sitting in Bobby's house, alone, waiting for him to come back and start beating me up every night like Dad did.

"How was school?" I ask. Sam comes in and sits next to me, holding a box of cereal in one hand and a math book and pencil in the other.

"It was fine. I guess you finally got out of bed."

"Yeah." Yeah, and it was the worst decision that I've made today.

"When are you gonna go back to school?"

I freeze. No one's brought up me and school in the same sentence since eight months ago. I'd always kind of assumed it was everyone's idea that I wasn't going back. It seems like too normal of a thing for me to do. I don't do normal things, like waking up early and having homework and not being on the edge of a mental breakdown almost all of the time. Plus, the thought that I might have to explain myself to teachers or change for gym in front of other people, that's terrifying. I just shrug at Sam and open my book again.

"Haven't Bobby and you talked about it before?"

"No."

"Oh."

Sammy goes back to his homework and we stop talking. Everything about talking to him is awkward now. He knows more than he used to, and I'm not technically in charge anymore, and it feels everything is out of place since we moved in with Bobby. Everything is out of place.

I make us mac and cheese for dinner. Maybe someday I'll be able to cook more than three things, but the odds aren't looking good. He launches into a long-winded story about school, and I listen, because it's better than talking. Then we go to bed. Well, Sam goes to bed, and I pretend to until he's asleep. I spend most of the night outside. It's louder outside, with the highway so close and the wind walking through the trees, and I don't really do silence anymore, so this is better. It's bigger, too, and I can't really do small anymore. I can't do a lot of things anymore. It makes me wonder why I could ever do them.

PTSD, they said. Post-traumatic stress. I don't feel traumatized. Just kind of tired and kind of jittery and kind of like jumping off a bridge. I go and sit on the roof of one of the cars in Bobby's lot. It's tempting; I know where the keys are, and it would almost be too damn easy to drive until I find a bridge or overpass high enough. But I know I'm not going to.

I lean back and sigh. There's not a lot of options for me. I'm starting to see that even though dead is definitely one of them, it might not be the best one. For the first time in months, I glance up and wonder if there's anyone glancing down. There probably isn't. If there was, they would've done something a long time ago. But it's still a nice thought. Angels. Mom. If I don't start letting myself have some hope again I'm not going to get anywhere.

Suddenly I hear someone yelling inside the house. Sam. You left him alone? I hear Dad shouting at me. I'm upstairs in our room with a gun before he can finish his sentence.

"Hey," I say breathlessly, my hands shaking around the shotgun I grabbed from… somewhere.

Sam's sitting in bed, fists bunched around the covers and his hair plastered to his forehead. I look around for a few minutes before I realize there's no one and nothing here. Just Sammy. I drop the gun.

"I had a bad dream," he says quietly, eyes wide and almost glowing in the darkness.

"It's okay." I sit on the bed and pull him into a hug. "It's fine. It was just a dream."

"You're freezing."

"Yeah, well, it's cold outside."

"You were outside?" he mumbles into my shoulder.

"I couldn't sleep. But I'm here now, okay? It'll be fine."

I stay there until he falls back asleep, running my hand through his hair. It only takes him a few minutes. He's got a gift when it comes to falling asleep, one I wish he could teach me. I think about going outside again, but instead I end up lying down next to him and closing my eyes. Maybe I'll actually get some sleep.

I don't have a lot of options. But as I drift off, I realize one thing; dead is definitely not one of them.

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 **Just a heads-up, I'm keeping to my plan to finish this fic by Halloween. But if you want a sequel-type thing, which I have an idea for, tell me. And if you don't want it, I'll probably still write it anyway, because PTSDean is my favorite thing to write.**


	26. Part Three: There Is Nothing To Writing

Chapter Twenty Six- Good Little Soldier- There Is Nothing To Writing

 **seitanspawn: Always nice to find someone who's actually read one of the greatest book series of all time. And don't you worry there's still a few more chapters to cram cute Sammy moments into. I'm sure it'll happen soon.**

 **bellatrix-la-dumb: Dean in school would be interesting and if I can I'll write it in but I've been thinking about it and I'm not quite sure where it would work in the rest of the stuff I have planned. I really want to see it too, though!**

 **TweetyRulz: So glad to have reached the 2- am- and- still- going- through- the- heartbreak level of evil. This is great. Soon I shall be a full-fledged Twist and Shout author whose fics give you psychological damage that will leave you crying at something as simple as a milkshake for the rest of your life.**

 **Trucklady53: Your review got 'Candle on the Water' stuck in my head and I don't know why but I also forgot that song existed until your review got it stuck in my head so thanks. Both sarcastically and literally.**

 **Trigger Warnings:TISSUES MAY BE NEEDED. PTSD, mentions of past sexual/physical/emotional/supernatural abuse, flashbacks.**

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Bobby comes home at about six on Friday. I spent most of the day in bed, trying to find the energy to move, but I got up at four when Sam got home. I make dinner, too, because there was actually food to make it with and because it gives me something to do.

There's still a lot of things to get used to. Like, there's food in the house. And there's an actual house, that we're living in, that isn't a cheap motel room or the backseat of the Impala. And when Bobby gets back he pulls me into a hug, which I guess isn't that weird but I don't really know what to do so I end up just standing there with my hands clenched at my sides until he pulls away.

This is when I find out if he's going to turn into Dad. This is where I start holding my breath again, counting down and waiting for the ball to drop. My leg bounces under the table as I watch Sam and Bobby eat. I end up just pushing my food around until it seems like there's less than there was, then scraping it all into the trash when I help clean up. I ignore the look Bobby keeps giving me until he pulls me back into the kitchen when I go to head upstairs.

"How're you doing?"

"Fine," I lie, turning back around.

"And I'm Mary Queen of Scots. How're you doing?" he asks again.

"I wasn't going to say you couldn't go," I mumble. We both sit at the table under the unspoken agreement that we're going to be here a while. "I managed."

He sighs and opens a bottle of beer. "What is it going to take for me to get a straight answer out of you, kid?"

"I don't know how I'm doing. Because I didn't get out of bed until four today and I almost slit my wrists yesterday, but I don't feel like dying 24/7 anymore and I didn't have another flashback that involved paramedics, so I'd call that a win. What do you want me to say? I'm a screwed-up person. I feel screwed-up."

"Did you sleep?"

"Enough."

"You've got meds, you know. You're supposed to be taking them."

I scrape one of my fingernails across the table.

 _"Come on, Dean. Take the damn pills."_

 _I shake my head, keeping my mouth shut until Dad pries my jaw open. "No," I try to say around his hand. He doesn't listen._

 _"It'll be easier for all of us this way," he says. I hear someone behind him laugh. Now I'm tired. More tired than I can ever remember being. I can barely feel my fingers. I'm vaguely aware that he's picking me up and moving me somewhere, and that I can't stop him, but I'm more aware of the fact that my eyes can't hold themselves open anymore. "See?" Dad whispers. I barely hear him. He sounds like he's shouting at me from across a lake. "Easier."_

"Dean!"

I flinch and look around the kitchen. "Sorry," I say. There's a deep scratch where my fingernail was. "I can't take the meds. I should've told you earlier."

"Why not?"

"I don't have a very happy history with sleeping pills."

Bobby takes a deep breath and nods to himself. "It's because of John, isn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure Creaser gave him the idea. And it was only a couple times."

"And those are the sons of bitches I used to trust," he mutters. "If the cops hadn't been in that courtroom…"

"It happened," I say. "You had nothing to do with it."

We stop talking. There's nothing else I feel like I can say to him; he could turn into just another hunter at any second. I stare at the almost-empty bottle sitting on the table next to him, thinking about how many times identical ones have been thrown at me, and suddenly the possibility seems even more real. Not just because he got back from a hunt. Not just because I've been a little more on edge lately. But the line I've always drawn to separate Bobby from Dad and the others is actually a lot more blurred than it seems when I stop and think about it. Dad lost his wife. So did Bobby. They both started hunting because of it. I've never been on the receiving end of his anger, but I live with him now. It's only a matter of time. At some point we're going to have to see the elephant standing in the corner of his kitchen. We might as well get it over with. I slam my hand on the table and stand up. "Just do it," I say.

He looks confused. "Do what?"

"I don't care. I'm used to it." I roll my shoulders back. "There's gotta be something I did. There always is. And I'm not gonna sit here anymore and pretend like I'm not waiting for it. I don't want this sitting over my head like it's the damn Sword of Damocles. Do something."

Bobby looks almost scared. "You think I'm gonna hit you, kid?"

"You said you wouldn't."

"I meant it."

"Dad meant it, too, until he was drunk and I didn't have my guard up. Martin meant it, too, until Dad gave him the okay. I can go on. Half the hunters in the States have taken a swing at me. It's nothing new." I take a step towards him, silently cursing myself when my breath hitches.

Bobby stands up and grabs my shoulders. I clench my jaw and brace myself.

"Dean… what is it gonna take for me to get it through your head that I'm not gonna hurt you? Look, your dad, may he rot in hell, and the people your dad knows… they're the exception, okay? Not the rule."

"Maybe for you." I pull away from his grip and start walking towards the door. "I'm not saying you want to hit me, because I honestly can't tell. But if you want to, I'm sick of walking on eggshells," I say.

"Damnit, I'm not going to! Dean, why can't you… okay, I know why you can't, but why don't you at least try to trust me?" He takes a few steps my direction.

I step into the hallway. "I can't tell, with you," I say.

"Can't tell what?"

I hate that he keeps walking towards me. Trying to bridge a gap as fast as I'm trying to create one. "If you're lying or not." I give up and turn to face him. His hands are raised in surrender. "Because you're acting the exact way Dad acted when Sam was around. And maybe that's a good thing, and maybe you're just waiting for me to get too comfortable. Which isn't going to happen." If I've learned anything, it's to never let my guard down. Not just from hunting, but from living with a man who could take the solid ground you're standing on and turn it into the thinnest layer of ice with a single glance. From living with the man who filled every chair I sat on with pins and needles. I spent eleven years on edge, and I'm not about to stop. Especially when I can't tell if Bobby is just biding his time or not. "So if you're going to do anything, just do it. Don't procrastinate."

Goddamnit, he's crying. I'm sick of seeing people cry. I'm sick of seeing myself cry, even though I feel like I'm about to.

"Dean, there ain't a damn thing you could do that would make me want to do anything to you. Are you ever gonna realize that?"

"Probably not," I choke out. I grip the doorframe until my knuckles turn white. "I'm… I'm broken, Bobby."

I realize that now, that maybe that's all I am. Not worthless. I was probably worth something once. I'm probably priceless when I'm in good condition. I probably could've been something close to normal if I hadn't lived with John for so many years. But now I'm just… broken. Cracked. Totaled. And realizing stings like a belt across my back.

I lower my head and stop trying to hold back the tears. Bobby crosses the rest of the distance between us in less than a second, and for a second I start to move away but I'm too tired. So I let him hug me and then I let him move me to the couch and then I just sit there and listen to his voice turn to white noise, ranting about how he won't hurt me. I think I believe him. I don't know. I am incapable of completely trusting another person. I am too broken for that. But I think I might believe him.

"I was four," I mumble.

He cuts himself off. "What?"

"I was _four and a half._ "

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"I was _seven_."

"You're out of the woods now. You're gonna be okay."

I have to laugh at that. Me. Okay. The word I've been hiding behind my entire life. How are you? Okay. I've only just come out from behind it. It's the word I say out loud until it loses all meaning. The word I stare at for so long I become convinced it's spelled wrong. Okay. There's a lot of words to describe what I am, and what I'm going to be, but okay never has been and never will be one of them.

He runs out of talking. I run out of listening, or pretending to. We walk up the stairs, one behind the other, not saying a word. There's nothing we can say to each other, after that. He goes to his room, and I go to mine.

I don't even try to fall asleep. I just stare at the ceiling and let my eyes drift in and out of focus.

I don't even try and fall asleep, that is, until I hear rustling from across the room and then the weight of another person on my bed. "Sammy?" I whisper. I turn to watch his silhouette nod in against the light from the hallway. "Kid, you should be asleep."

"It's not even a school night." He crawls in between the covers and I wrap my arm around him, glad we still fit. I'm not too broken for this.

"I'll wake you up if you have a bad dream," he says.

"Are you sure? You need sleep, too."

"Not as much as you do. Besides, I like it on this side of the room. You're closer to the window."

I almost smile. This is the one thing from the past eleven years that I don't mind reliving. After a few minutes of silence, I let my eyes close as I drift closer to the edge of sleep than I've gone in a long time. Just before I cross it, I hear Sam singing. Or humming. I can't quite tell.

Carry on my wayward son…

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I wake up at nine. Sam's already gone, probably downstairs eating breakfast, and I know I should join him and Bobby. Christ, last night. Bobby. I need to talk to him. But the sky outside is overcast and I can tell everywhere but my bed will be freezing cold and unforgiving. I doze off and on for another hour and a half before finally deciding I need to go downstairs. Yawning, I pull a flannel on over my t-shirt and stumble down the stairs. Sam's lying on the couch watching cartoons, and I have more than half a mind to join him, but Bobby's sitting in the kitchen, scanning the paper, obviously waiting for me to say something.

"Morning," I mumble, crossing the kitchen to the sink and filling a glass with water.

"Dean, I-"

"I believe you, okay? I just think it's going to change. It always has."

"It's not going to. I promise."

I kind of want to punch him in the face. Everyone who's ever done anything to me promised they wouldn't at one point. But he seems so serious about it, and at the moment I can't imagine him hurting anything human, so instead of assaulting him I sit at the table across from him. Exactly like we were last night. He takes a deep breath, like he's about to sentence me to something, and pulls a notebook out from his jacket. He slides it across the table to me. It looks almost like Dad's journal, but darker and thinner. The leather is almost black. Glancing up at him in confusion, I pick it up and open it. It's completely blank. The lines on the paper are grey instead of blue; the same color as the sky outside.

"I was about to give this to you yesterday. You've been through hell, kid. And you don't just go through hell without even sending someone a postcard telling them how crappy things are. Now I know you're not gonna tell me, and god knows you're not gonna tell any shrink I send you to, so that's for you."

"This is my autobiography," I say flatly.

"Sure. I'm not gonna look in it unless you want me to."

I stare at the cover. It's vaguely terrifying, having all those pages to spill my guts onto. One of the only things anyone told me for years is to not even think about what happened to me, because that might snowball into me telling someone. There's some orders I actually wish I could've followed. And now I'm being told the opposite. I feel like someone just offered me proof the world is flat. "Thanks," I mutter.

There's a piece of paper in the pocket of my jeans upstairs. Two pieces, actually, attached with the staples I got from an Ohio police station. Those papers are the closest I've ever gotten to doing what Bobby's asking me to do. And I told myself I'd give them to him, someday. I stand up and walk upstairs. I'm sure he thinks I'm leaving because I don't want anymore confrontation. I'm not. I'm doing the opposite. I grab the papers and walk back downstairs.

"I don't trust you yet," I say, hoping it doesn't sound to blunt. "But I'm trying. And on some level, I must already, because I addressed this to you." I hold out the papers a little, not quite ready to hand them over. "This was my note. And I wrote it to you. So you should probably have it. I sure as hell don't want it anymore. I'm not gonna try and kill myself again, you don't have to worry, but… I don't know. This is yours." I set it on the table in front of him and pick up the journal. A fair trade.

Bobby stares at the paper, then back at me. "Are you sure?"

"More than I usually am. You got a pen?"

He pulls one out of his pocket and hands it to me.

"Okay. You should probably keep Sam out of our room. I'm gonna be a mess."

"I will."

I stand in the middle of the kitchen, hoping I forgot something, hoping I won't have to force myself to do this even though he's right, it probably will help. There's nothing else for me to do but nod, mostly to reassure myself, and walk back upstairs. I lock the door, just in case. I haven't locked the door at all since Sam and I started living here, mostly because I'm a paranoid person.

I sit on the floor. The desk feels too official, too unsafe. I crack open the cover and click the pen.

 _The first time Dad hit me I was four and a half._

This is going to be a long day. The longest day of my life, actually. But maybe it'll fill in some of the cracks. Maybe it'll patch up some of the tears. Maybe I'll be okay, after.

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 **Just so you know, the chapter title is from one of my favorite quotes ever: "there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed"**

 **The sequel is gonna happen, guys! I'm still kind of shocked that enough people like my writing so much that they actually want more. Thanks so much for all your support, seriously. I'll post some more information about it at the end of the (wipes away stray tear) last chapter. Please review! I have to get some sleep now; I've been blessed with the great combination of a fever and two tests tomorrow. Ugh. Anyway, I'll update sometime this weekend.**


	27. Part Three: The Road So Far

Chapter Twenty Seven- Good Little Soldier- The Road So Far

 **scoutbokmal: being morbid to characters is pretty fun, isn't it? And I kinda thought it would be therapeutic for Dean to write everything down and get it out of his system. Have fun writing the rest of your story; I'm sure it'll be great!**

 **babyreaper: I'm thinking Bobby would've figured out which hunters John let do anything to Dean and turned them into the police as well, or something. Whatever he did, he did something and there's not going to be a repeat of Martin.**

 **Seitanspawn: I'll be sad, too, even though there's a sequel. I lowkey want to go on hiatus again so I don't have to finish it, but I've got to. Ugh.**

 **Trigger warnings: actually, none? I think? Is this actually a… *gasp* happy chapter?**

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 _The sunset comes full blast through the windshield of the Impala, nearly blinding me. It paints the road ahead in purples and yellows and reds and for once I like the fire I'm seeing. There's music playing, music I got to pick, but I'm not really listening to it. I feel a smile working its way across my face, a real one, and I let it because there's no reason not to._

 _There's a whole country full of highway I could drive on. I know that better than anyone. But the only road I even think about driving on is the one I'm going down right now. They say all roads lead home, but I'm pretty sure this one's the fastest. Unless there's a shortcut Bobby won't tell me about._

 _I can still hear the legos rattle in the vents I crammed them into years ago. God, I'm glad Dad never found out and chalked it up to it being a used car. And god I'm glad she's still running, after everything Dad put her through. It's always been my car, really. Maybe Dad thought it was his, and maybe it was technically his, but all he ever did was drive in it. So it's my car. And now I'm the one driving it. Justice._

 _I pull onto Bobby's property and stop in front of the house. "Smooth landing, kid," I hear him say from he passenger seat. I just keep smiling._

"Dean!"

I'm pulled kind of rudely out of my dream by Sam jumping onto my bed and throwing the covers off me.

"Dean, come downstairs. I made pancakes!"

"Do I call poison control before or after breakfast, then?"

He sits back on his heels and pouts, making me laugh a little. I realize I woke up smiling. It's a nice change.

"Come on. I only have four days left in spring break. We're gonna go see a movie today."

"What movie?"

"I haven't picked yet," he replies, jumping back up and running out the door. "Come downstairs!" he calls over his shoulder.

I prop myself up on my elbows and stare out the window. Sometimes I forget what morning looks like, with my track record of waking up so late. There's still some stars, shining stubbornly through the gray-blue sky like protesters chaining themselves to the trees stretching up to meet them, still more silhouette than actual tree. The sunrise is over, there's no way in hell I'll see that, and I still like dusk better, but it's still a great view. Everything's kind of great, this morning. Maybe it's because I woke up smiling.

Bobby stops me on my way to the kitchen. "Hey," he says. "How you doing? Okay?"

"I'm getting there," I answer carefully, suddenly aware that this is just a day, a morning, a few minutes. This is the outlier as far as moods go for me. "I'm doing pretty good right now."

"Well, that's great."

"Yeah. It is."

Breakfast is about as good as expected. Meaning, we all take a few bites of pancakes then Bobby makes us something that's actually edible. Sam doesn't even complain. That's how bad his cooking skills are.

I think about the notebook sitting between my mattress and bed frame. I haven't touched it since a few weeks ago, when I wrote everything down, and I don't plan on going anywhere near it for a while. But it's good that it's there. I feel like I have more control. I still have flashbacks, and nightmares, but I only have to consciously think about why if I want to.

Also, I think I'm actually getting better. Well, okay, that's an exaggeration. I took sleeping pills, big deal. I had one conversation with Bobby about it that didn't end with me having a breakdown. Baby steps would be giving it too much credit. But it's better than what it was when Sam and I first got here. It's better than before I filled that notebook. It's better than when we lived with Dad.

The phone rings, jolting me back to the present, and I'm about to stand up and answer it when Bobby does it for me.

"If this is about the case is Sacramento- oh. Officer Scott… yeah… I don't think so. I'll ask him." Bobby holds a hand over the receiver. "Dean."

"What?"

"They've got the Impala at the police station. You probably don't want-"

"Why the hell wouldn't I want it?"

He gives me a confused look. "I don't know, Dean, why wouldn't you want John's car?"

"Because it's not John's car. It's my car. Tell him we'll get it today."

I can barely stand still the rest of the morning. They have my car. I'm gonna get my car back. This is literally a dream come true.

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My leg bounces restlessly under the dashboard as we drive Bobby's truck to the police station.

"Why d'you want the thing?" Bobby asks. "It was your dad's. You don't think it'll… I don't know…"

"It's not my dad's car. It's my car."

"Technically it's my car, now."

I laugh and turn the music up. The sun comes full blast through the windshield, practically blinding both of us. We turn a corner and I blink a few times, black spots still dancing across my vision. The police station comes into view, and with it is the Impala.

My car.

The car I tried so many times to run away in, the car I spent so many nights in because I was too scared to see what I would have to face inside the motel room, the car that's been rebuilt as many times as it was totaled, that's been through monster after monster and is still shining in the afternoon sunlight. The least perfect and most perfect car in the world.

I remember what the other Dean said, that night outside the motel. That I'd get to drive around the country in this car. And how I hadn't believed him. Times have changed, I guess.

Bobby walks into the station, and I stay outside, running a hand over the hood, the black paint warm from the sunlight and the drive from Ohio. I look in through the backseat window; the army man Sam crammed in the ashtray is still there.

I hear a door close behind me and turn around. Bobby throws the keys at me, and for once I don't flinch. I just catch them.

"You can't drive it home you know," he says. "You don't have a license."

I take my fake ID out of my pocket. "Actually I'm seventeen. And an organ donor."

He laughs a little. "Drive safe, kid."

I unlock the door and slide into the driver's seat. God, I've been wanting to sit here for years. They took out most of the cassettes, and I'm sure the trunk is empty. But when I check, Sammy's and my initials are still carved on the passenger side. There's still a few newspaper articles and pages from dad's notebook on the backseat floor. And there's still a few Kansas cassettes in the glovebox.

I put one in and pull out of the station onto the highway. And suddenly I think that maybe I won't always have a roof and four walls, but I don't think I'll ever be, in fact, homeless. Not anymore.

Thursday is officially my favorite day of the week.

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 **Well I feel like crap now. So that's great.**


	28. Epilogue: We Turned Out Okay

Good Little Soldier- Epilogue

 **Okay. So I know that this will never be twist and shout, but this is always going to be the best fic I ever wrote. Because when I started this I had never finished anything beyond a one shot, and I had almost no confidence as a writer (almost no skill either, fetus me what were you thinking). But working on this fic and finishing it and getting so much positive feedback from it has made such a difference, and I can't thank you people enough for reading this and reviewing and yeah. It was fun.**

 **Now here's some destiel.**

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"You're not. I promise," I say. Christ, I forgot how scared I was that night. And now I can see it written all over his- my- face. Maybe it's just the time-travelling. Maybe it's just Cas. But he's terrified. There's a hell of a lot more I want to tell him, but I know this is all he's going to listen to, all he's going to believe. It's just enough to get him out of the corner of this motel parking lot, just enough to get him to deliver the note sitting next to him himself, just enough to get him to put the gun down. I told him about the car, sure, but as much as I want to I'm not gonna tell him how great it is to sit in the driver's seat. I tell him it gets better (wow, gay slogan, how appropriate) but I make sure it doesn't sound like everything's going to be perfect here on out.

I tell him just enough. And then I leave. Because even though I'd freaking love to break down the door to that motel room for him, there's some stuff I have to do myself. My fourteen-year-old self. As in, me, thirty-something-year-old Dean, can't do it for him. Time travel still makes no sense.

I stand up and pull my jacket back on. Maybe I'll finally let Cas erase the scars on my stomach. Probably not. It's weird, but the fact that they're there is kind of encouraging some days. A reminder of how far I've come. He hates them more than I do, now.

"Wait, you're leaving?" he asks.

"You need to do this yourself," I reply, wishing I could say more. Wishing I could do more. I glance back towards Cas. He told me before we left the bunker that I wouldn't have much time before we started ripping a hole in space and time or something that sounded way more like something Sam would say. Cas is walking in circles around himself, hands in his pockets. He's kind of adorable when he doesn't know what to do. "Besides," I say, turning back to younger me. "I've got a date."

"Hold on," he says as I'm about to walk away. "How do you know I'm not just gonna pick up the gun again?"

I still remember how hard I tried to convince myself none of what this guy, who was way older than me and said angels were real, none of what he said could change what I was going to do. And then it did.

"Because I exist. You'll be okay, Dean." Okay. That word has a lot of weight. Because it means that you don't lie and say you're doing great or fantastic, but it means you're not bad, either. And I've spent most of my life saying I'm great to cover up the fact that I actually still feel like dying. Cas walks up and stands next to me, shooting me a look that says we need to go. I smile back. I'm okay. I never thought I'd see the day. "Carry on," I say to Dean, who is slowly setting the gun down on the pavement. I almost turn back around and tell him to never return Crowley's calls, because honestly that would be the best damn advice I could give myself, but I don't.

"That was very inspirational," Cas says, his gravelly voice bouncing off the fence and motel wall.

I wrap my arm around his waist. "I'm an inspirational person."

"Who's your date with?"

We stare at each other for a few seconds. Then I pull him into a kiss. I swear, every time I kiss him it gets better. Not just the kiss part. Everything. Every time I kiss him a few more pieces of this screwed-up jigsaw puzzle that people keep kicking across the floor fall into place. "I thought it was obvious," I say.

Suddenly we're back in the bunker. Home sweet home. Well, sort of. Some part of me will never stop thinking of Bobby's house as home, even though the Leviathans burned it down years ago. I'll always think home smells like books and whiskey and spray paint which should be a terrible combination but isn't. But this is as home as it gets, now. Sam's here, so that counts for something. And on the days when I can't get out of bed, I can't really imagine being anywhere else. I guess anywhere Cas is is home. And my baby's parked outside. I can't complain.

So yeah, I guess I'm home.

I guess I'm okay.

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End file.
